Minion
by Gevaisa
Summary: In his home country of Latveria, it's Doctor Doom who is the hero, and Reed Richards who is the villain... Rating is for sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters from Marvel Comics. Joviana is an original character.

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My name is, or, rather, is now Joviana Florescu, and for the past three years I have had a career as a professional henchwoman, a courtier, or a minion, to Victor Von Doom. It's been interesting.

I shall begin at the beginning, and perhaps jump ahead to the present day after that.

It was not love at first sight, but something else, something extraordinary, not as clichéd, hard to define.

Doctor Doom was not the first to whom I had gone, when I formulated my plan; he was the last, and the last on my list. Magneto had been the worst of them—he had sneered at me, and been openly insulting, partly because I was twenty-two, plain, and pudgy, but mostly because I was not a mutant. I told him, as I left, that with his attitude, if he had been born an American Southerner, he would habitually pronounce the word 'Negro' with two 'g's. I don't believe he got my meaning, but then again, what more could I have expected from him? I could think of half a dozen uses for his powers that he had never come up with.

But finally, I had made the circuit, an expensive and demoralizing quest. The Sub-Mariner—the King-Pin—Arcade—so many others, and the only one left on my list was Doom.

I had left him for the last for several reasons. He had diplomatic immunity, and could kill me without any fear of reprisal, that was one, and he was by far the most intelligent and powerful, which was another, and finally, I thought he was by far my best chance. I had an advantage with him that I lacked with the others: Thanks to my late grandmother, I could claim Latverian descent, and I could make my appeal in Latverian. If I failed to convince him, it was all over. I would have to go back home, where I no longer had a job, an apartment, any savings, or a car—but where I now had a massive credit card debt.

Of course I could always have gone home to live with my 'natural' mother, but suicide would have been infinitely preferable. That was, in fact, my plan, if all else failed. Once all else failed…

Doom had been in New York explaining to the United Nations why his latest contretemps with the Fantastic Four did not constitute an act of war. He had won on the grounds that the attack was against them as private citizens, and that he had been acting as an individual rather than as the leader of Latveria.

While he was in residence, I had gone to the Latverian Embassy every day for a week, beginning on Monday, and by Friday, I was desperate. He would be leaving soon. I was running out of both time and credit. I had to be desperate. It was the only way I could work up enough courage to approach him.

Every morning that week, I had gone through the embassy security check, put my name down for an audience with Doom, and then sat and waited. I left for an hour at lunch, came back afterwards, and sat and waited until the embassy closed to the public, after which I went back to my fleabag hotel.

So on Friday morning, before I left that cramped, hideous hotel room, I sat down and wrote a note explaining why I thought he should see me. I signed the name I was born with, the name I used to use, back in those unhappy days, and I sealed it. When the aide at the embassy took my name for the fifth time, I passed him the envelope, along with a hundred dollar bill, which I could in no way afford to give out.

"If you would be so kind as to give this to His Excellency, it will explain why I want to see him." I said, as I handed over the money and the envelope.

The aide's eyes flicked from the envelope to me as he discovered the money, and back again.

"I can't accept this." he said, and my heart sank. But he only handed back the money, and not the note. "I can pass this along, but I can't make any promises."

"I understand." I said, and sat to wait some more. After the first morning, I had made sure to bring a book with me, so I sat and read for forty-five minutes.

The aide returned, and gave me a puzzled, searching look. "His Excellency will see you now."

I was put through another security check before he led me down a thickly carpeted hall to a massive pair of doors. "You may go in. He is expecting you." The aide opened the door, and I went it.

It was an office, expensively furnished and, at that moment, rather dark. None of the lights were on, and it was a cloudy day, so the only illumination was the watery grey daylight that shone feebly through the windows, where Doom was standing.

His back was toward me, and that hooded figure so dominated the room that I could look nowhere else. It was not like being in the room with a person: it was like that moment in Mozart's Don Giovanni, when the statue of the Commandant comes to life. He did not turn. He barely stirred.

Then he spoke, quoting what I had written in my note. " '_If you will see me I can tell you how you can triumph over Reed Richards completely and forever._' That is an audacious assertion, particularly coming from you.

"Your name is—." The name I used then is not important anymore. I will let it die. "You are twenty-two years old. You come from a former mining town in Pennsylvania, which once produced both coal and steel, but the coal was mined out a generation ago and the steel industry has moved overseas. Nothing has taken its place; your town is in a seemingly permanent state of depression. You are Scots-Irish on your mother's side, but your father is, or was, half-German, half-Latverian. His mother raised you entirely by herself for the first seven years of your life, and it was undoubtedly she who taught you to speak, read and write Latverian."

"Yes. I grew up bi-lingual."

"Your IQ has tested at 167. You are to be congratulated," he continued, as if I had not spoken. "One hundred fifty and above is considered to be on a genius level. Unfortunately, you have never lived up to your potential. You are a chronic underachiever. Your standardized test scores are in the 99th percentile, but your academic records are little better than mediocre. You went to a local community college, then to a local liberal arts school—and not a prestigious one. You managed a degree in French literature. Until two months ago, you had been employed as a cashier in a drugstore—only the latest in a series of low-level clerical and retail jobs—file clerk, stock person, and the like. You have never made as much as twenty thousand dollars in a year. You live alone in a studio apartment. Finally—and this, at least, I find highly individual of you—you have a restraining order out against your mother." With his resources, it must have been easy for him to find out all about me.

He was still looking out the window. He had never turned around—never turned his head to see to whom he was speaking. "So. Tell me, what have you have ferreted out? How shall I triumph over Reed Richards completely and forever? I am all agog to hear it." His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "I don't expect much of an answer out of you. I decided to hear you out merely on the off-chance that I might find it amusing."

I couldn't speak. The lyrics of a Tori Amos song echoed through my head: 'Got a bowling ball in my stomach, and a desert in my mouth. Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now.'

"Well? I am waiting."

"It will be easier," I began, the words coming out haltingly at first, "if I explain what Reed Richards is doing wrong. I read. I read a lot. I read everything I can get my hands on. I know that magazines like Popular Science and Discover are to you what abridged novels are to me, something cut down to size for those who aren't ready for the real thing, and may never be ready for the real thing, but I enjoy them.

"Six months ago," I continued; my words were flowing better, "there were a lot of articles about Dr. Richards' latest development, a way to transmit and receive energy, especially electricity, as if it were radio waves."

The hint of a growl welled up from the depths of Doom's throat.

"Of course, Richards' sponsoring corporation, Winfield-Merton, was prominently mentioned in all the articles, with statements from their CEO saying how their partnership with Richards is contributing to a cleaner, greener America, and a better world to follow. The arrangement they have with Richards goes back years; they underwrite his research, and in exchange, they get his patents and developments."

"I know all of this. Why repeat it?" he asked.

"Because if Reed Richards' developments and inventions are so good, so ecologically sound and economically feasible, why does Winfield-Merton have some of the worst track records in terms of industrial emissions?"

For the first time since I had entered the room, he moved. He turned his head, not enough to look at me directly, just enough to see me out of the corner of his eye. "Go on." he commanded.

"Richards came up with a functioning cold-fusion reactor five years ago. It emits no radiation or other pollution, and it's so powerful that a unit the size of a refrigerator should be able to power a small city. He came up with an anti-gravity unit that can safely be used as transportation. He—well, you undoubtedly know all of this better than I do, but the sum and total of it is this: Winfield-Merton is sitting on Richards' work—every significant development, at least. There is a safety valve that's used in commercial grade espresso machines across America, and an anti-drift, anti-static device that used widely in cell phones, but, other than bits and pieces like that, nothing Richards developed is in production. I had thought you were responsible, but as I continued with my research, I became convinced that you were not."

"You are correct. Continue."

"Richards didn't turn over prototypes. He saves those for the Fantastic Four. He turned over working models, blueprints, diagrams, everything required and ready to go into production—and Winfield-Merton isn't producing a thing. I have a disc with all the articles and publications I used in my research. It's indexed, highlighted, and cross referenced, with notes that I made as I came to my conclusion."

I had drawn closer to him as I talked, not close enough to touch, but close enough to be so startled when he turned to face me that I jumped.

I had never before seen him in person, of course, and while the mask was shocking at such a close range, it was his eyes that affected me the most. The look he turned on me should have set his eyelashes on fire.

He looked me up and down, and his was not the assessing 'Do I want to screw her?' glance men usually give women. It was a visual examination of the kind Sherlock Holmes might have used.

When he spoke again, it was in a completely different tone of voice. "I will review your disc, but not at the present moment. What, in your estimation, is the reason why Winfield-Merton should choose to spend millions—even billions—sponsoring Richards, only to make no use of the greater part of what they receive in return?"

He was listening.

He was listening seriously.

"I can't be as definite about that. I have no proof; I can only offer surmise." I warned him.

"I understand. You have, however, shown a certain perspicacity thus far, and I am intrigued."

I took a deep breath, and began. "While I can't blame Winfield-Merton for not putting an anti-gravity car on the general market—there are more than enough accidents on the roads as it is without giving the average driver the capacity to go airborne—there could be anti-gravity mass transit systems, and the cold fusion generator ought to be used in cities around the world.

"Winfield-Merton has ties to the current administration—very close ties—and to big oil, and so many other groups and interests that I'm surprised they haven't run afoul of the anti-trust regulations. Reed Richards' innovations are so comprehensive, and so far reaching, that the changes they would have to make to put his developments into production would be so costly—and with so little future return, since the bottom would fall out of the oil market—that they have a greater profit margin keeping things as they are now. They spend millions financing him—but they regain it in publicity, and they save billions by not making his inventions available."

His eyes did not leave me. "Now tell me why Richards has not noticed this himself."

I had reached what was probably the weakest point in my argument. This took a fresh infusion of courage. "I think he hasn't noticed because he's too busy being a superhero."

I regretted those words the moment they left my mouth. It was too simple. It was ridiculous.

He threw back his head, and gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I decided to see you because I thought you might prove amusing—and so you have, but not in the way I anticipated. And now—how do you propose that I should use this knowledge? How shall I triumph over Richards completely and for all time? I have no need of your guidance, but I have heard you this far. I will hear you to the end."

"That would depend on when you want to reveal Richards' blind spot to him—or he may realize it on his own, eventually. As soon as he finds out, he's going to go to the press and to court to try and force Winfield-Merton either to put his developments into production, or else recover his patents. He'll find the process to be expensive, time-consuming, and exhausting, and I doubt he'll succeed. Winfield-Merton can afford better lawyers, and their contract with Richards would be water-tight. More—air-tight.

"As long as he doesn't catch on, you'll have time to get even further ahead, to achieve even more. You," I hesitated. "You ought to cease any and all actively aggressive combat-oriented maneuvers and plans against him—against them. That isn't the right battlefield. It's a waste of your time, your energies, and your attention." This next bit was risky. It was entirely true, but he might perceive it as flattery—or even outright brown nosing. Also, I would have to come right out and say the 'M' word—'mistake'.

"You see, I think you make the mistake," (I could see his brows contract through the eye-holes of the mask. He was probably frowning.) "of measuring your success against his only in the realm of science—his strongest suit—where there are so many other areas where, if the two of you were compared, he would be found sadly wanting. Winfield-Merton would never have been able to pull the wool over your eyes with a combination of money and publicity. You're far too aware, too canny, and too responsible to allow that to happen. He leads a group of four, and they're always squabbling. You lead a nation of five hundred thousand people, and you do an extraordinary job of it.

"That's just the beginning. It's true that the Fantastic Four are always saving the planet from something or other, but there are plenty of other hero-teams out there who do the same thing, and while they're at it, the tundra up in Alaska and Canada is disappearing, a third of the population of Africa is infected with the HIV virus, and Venice is sinking into the sea. None of them are doing anything effective about that—because it's more fun to play at being a superhero."

"Your observations are exceptionally keen—if somewhat presumptuous. I retract my earlier statement."

"Which one was that?" I asked.

"You are not a chronic underachiever. The exact nature of your genius was never fully understood—genius rarely fits into preconceived roles. Now, since I am not so naïve as to think you have done all of this for nothing, and since I am indebted to you in some degree—how may I reward you?"

I had, and still have, an ulterior motive, a personal agenda, but at that moment, I thought of my life, which he had summarized so effectively—the hometown where I had no prospects of any kind, the series of menial jobs that stretched into my future just as they did into my past, my mother, who, despite the restraining order, called every place I was hired , and said things about me until I was either fired, or quit because I couldn't stand the unfriendly atmosphere any longer.

I let those things cause tears to sting my eyes, and then I said, "I want a new life. The one I've got is horrible."

"You shall have it."

That was three years ago.

He was true to his word.

* * *

**A/N:** If you're a current reader of another of my fics, don't worry, I haven't abandoned them. It's just that—well, Doom is another phenomenally brilliant man in a mask, and he's even been known to play and compose music now and then. You understand the dilemma….

Next, the next chapters, IF I post more (they're already done, and posted elsewhere) will be naughty. Very naughty. So naughty I'll have to censor them somewhat. So this is here to serve as a warning, and also as an encouragement for you to post feedback and reviews—your response, or lack thereof, will determine what happens.

Thank you.

Gevaisa


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Okay. This is the chapter when the naughty stuff starts. Definite mature rating. Some kink. Only consenting adults, though, and nobody gets hurt. Not as graphic as two other stories currently in the Mature section of the Fantastic Four. If you are nervous, please do not read on.

* * *

Regardless of how it may seem, I actually had nothing against Reed Richards personally, other than that he was a superhero. Becoming one seems to do something to the brain; hence his blind spot regarding what became of his inventions once they left his hands. By all accounts, other than Doom's, he was a fine man, a loving husband, and a good father. I knew no ill of him. 

Yet I had ruthlessly hunted out the secret which would destroy him in a way that nothing else could, which would mean the end of the Fantastic Four, perhaps the destruction of his marriage and family— for the legal battles that would ensue meant interminable lawsuits, endless stress, and, ultimately, bankruptcy. Above all else, being a high-profile superhero was expensive. Peter Parker, who I knew to be Spiderman, could manage with only a colorful suit, but more usually, the cost of heroics was several hundred thousand a year, not counting living expenses or insurance.

Exposing Richards was only the beginning, however. My life took off from there…

I returned to my hotel only to pick up my suitcases, which had in them only things I needed or valued enough to retain: a few clothes, a photo album, my favorite books. Then I returned to the Latverian embassy—and consequently vanished off the face off the earth. I had no passport. I didn't need one. Doctor Doom would never stoop to traveling on a commercial flight, and when he returned to Latveria, I went along.

Within days of my arrival, I had a new name, the name I currently use, a new identity, complete with background, lodgings in Castle Doom—a very small suite, just a bedroom and bath—and a job. I was to read, just as I had done when I discovered what Winfield-Merton was doing with Reed Richards' inventions, and come up with further insights.

The problem was that insight cannot be commanded or forced. It happens when it will. Within two weeks, it was clear to me that if I didn't have a more structured schedule, I was going to spend four or five hours a day playing solitaire. I needed to do something productive during the day, and read on my own time. The insights would follow.

I explained that to Doom, who assigned me to help look after the influx of refugees from Serbia, which I did for six months, until I realized why Stark International was going to go bankrupt very suddenly in five years. Compiling all my sources and writing it up took fifty-five days, after which I was sent to work with the outreach educational program intended to help Romany children learn to read—a significant problem, as the illiteracy rate among Gypsies is greater than sixty percent. Then I became interested in the drop in the Atlantisean birthrate…

Of late, I'd been made a diplomatic aide. Doom selected my assignments, seemingly at random. Sometimes all I had to do was be part of his entourage, following him around Latveria, or around the globe.

And then there was my private agenda…

But my life was to change again. Three years after I entered the service of Doom—.

I was reading in the library when I heard him approach. It was, of course, Victor Von Doom, the ruler of Latveria, my employer—although perhaps it would be more accurate to say he was my liege lord. The library was his own private library, and I had his permission to use it at any time, so I did not start guiltily when he appeared; I merely rose, and gave him an informal bow of respect.

"My lord." I greeted him. All would-be world conquerors require an array of henchmen, lackeys, and aides; Victor Von Doom is no exception. I am one of many. Thus far I have avoided being blamed for something that went wrong with one of his plans. (My liege lord believes that he makes no mistakes and needs no advice.)

"Good evening, Joviana. Please, sit." There is no other voice like his in the world—deep, resonant, commanding. "What are you reading?"

"Recherche Le Temps Perdu." I show him the cover.

"Again? How many times does this make?" he asked.

"Five—but only the second in French." I answered.

"And it never palls on you." It is a statement, not a question, and there is a note of approval in his voice.

"Never." I smile.

He turned to a bookshelf, and ran the fingers of one hand, encased in its metal gauntlet, over the bindings. I can count the number of times I have seen him without gloves on the fingers of one hand. I have never seen his face.

He wears a shell of steely armor whenever he is around another human being—not the medieval armor one might suppose, but an incredibly sophisticated product of the most advanced technology possible. It is of his own devising. There are computer systems built into it, life support, anything and everything. It is amazing. Over it, he wears an olive green cloak with a hood—and a mask. He always wears the mask.

His face was destroyed years ago, in an explosion.

He would be one of the handsomest men in the world, were it not for that.

I turned back to Proust. Doom continued to search the shelves idly. Presently, he remarked, "Joviana, you have been in my employ for nearly three years now. You were twenty-two then, were you not?"

"Yes. I'm twenty-five now." I agreed.

"You have served me loyally and well." I had actually saved his life about a year before. I had to do it the hard way—by dying. Doctor Doom is a master of the occult as well as a scientist and a ruler, and he brought me back. (That sort of thing happens far oftener than anyone would suppose.)

"Thank you, my lord." I replied, wondering what this was leading up to. Doctor Doom is not in the habit of merely firing people; those who feel his displeasure are lucky to leave his employ alive. In my mind, I quickly ran over anything I might have said or done, any way in which I might have failed him or angered him. I couldn't think of any.

He doesn't need much of a reason. He might not have liked the way I spoke to a diplomat, or the seating arrangement I drew up for a conference.

I added, as smoothly as I could, "Whatever my merits as a servitor, I can only strive to live up to your expectations as a leader."

"You are one of the very few who approaches that. Tell me, would you care to gain a greater measure of my trust and gratitude?"

It sounded as if this was going to be dangerous. But I answered, "My lord, I am yours to command. If it lies within my power to perform it, you have only to say what I should do."

"It may lie within your power." he said, thoughtfully. "Will you trust me?" and with that question, he extended his hand to me.

"Yes." I said. I knew my own worth; I knew I was valuable and useful. I have few, if any illusions concerning my master. I stood up, and took his hand.

He led me up the spiraling stairs to the upper level of the library, and up another level from there, into an area of the castle where I had never been before—his private study. I was being granted entry to his living quarters.

Had it been any other man, I would have suspected his motives. But not my dour, brooding employer. Not Doctor Doom, who had spent over a decade sealed inside his metal skin, away from any human touch.

"Sit there." He indicated a chaise lounge, made without a higher side, something like a more elegant version of a psychiatrist's couch. A light cashmere throw was draped over it. I sat. "Put your feet up," he suggested—or commanded—pleasantly.

I shed my slippers on the carpet, and did so. As he crossed the room, I took the opportunity to look around. It was a handsomely appointed, masculine room, paneled in a dark wood and furnished with a mix of antiques and the best modern furniture. The predominant color of the carpets, upholstery, and such, was green.

Had it been any other man, I would have anticipated what came next—not exactly as it happened, perhaps, but something of the kind. He strode back across the room, took my right hand, snapped a restraint around my wrist, knelt, and swiftly, efficiently, closed the other half to a leg of the chaise.

I jumped, shocked. "What—wait?"

He caught my other hand, held my wrist firmly, and told me, softly, "Say 'no', and I remove the cuffs. Say 'no', and you may go back downstairs, back to your suite, back to your duties, unharmed. It is as simple as that. I give you my word it shall be as if this never happened. But—say 'yes', and you will not suffer for it, I promise. You will only rise higher in my esteem."

I sat frozen for a long moment, searching his eyes. His armor is powered to give him the strength to move tons, if need be. He could undoubtedly compel or force me into anything he chose—but his word or promise, I knew, once given, was more binding to him than any law.

I considered asking if the shackle was necessary, but I rejected the idea. Obviously, it was.

Just because something was not anticipated does not mean it is unwelcome.

I relaxed, and let him do what he would with my arm. He exhaled, "Ahhhh," a pleased sigh, and chained my other wrist to the leg on that side of the chaise. I couldn't move my arms more than fifteen centimeters in any direction.

I couldn't really stay sitting up in that position—I was compelled to lie back against the curve of the chaise, my arms hanging down, exquisitely aware of how my back was arched, of how my breasts thrust upward, of how very vulnerable I was…

"And—this." He slipped a sleep mask with an elastic strap over my eyes. The cool silk kissed my eyelids as I heard a faint clanking sound. "Now," he stated, as I heard his voice come nearer to my ear. "You will continue to show me the unfailing respect and deference, the _obedience_ of which I know you are capable. Ordinarily, I welcome your questions and observations, but under _these_ circumstances, you will not speak unless I ask you a question, and then you will answer me truthfully. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord." My mouth had gone dry. I had consented to this. I had consented…

Then his hand, his naked hand, without its cold metal gauntlet, that hand which had clasped mine, skin to skin, only once before—and that when I had saved his life! That hand touched my face. The back of it stroked down my cheek, turned, curled, and cupped my chin. He began to run his thumb over my lips, caressing them, and around the flesh at the corners of my mouth. I never knew how sensitive that area was, until, with a touch as light and gentle as a butterfly landing on a flower, he explored it, millimeter by millimeter, in total silence.

It was more thrilling than any kiss I had ever received from a mouth. My breath caught in my throat, and below my navel, that sensation of fullness, heaviness, the swelling of arousal, began.

He spoke. "For nearly three years, you have been at hand—never very far away, always in the corner of my mind, if not in the corner of my eye, and for nearly three years, this has been building in me, and all toward you."

His hand left my face, and I almost moaned at its loss. He began to tug at the bottom of my blouse.

I was wearing the clothes I often do on summer evenings—a tank top and gauze trousers with a drawstring. After a day spent in the serious attire Lord Doom considered appropriate for an aide, I liked comfort, and I had no one to entice—. At least, I had thought I had no one to entice…

Cool metal kissed my skin, and I heard a light hiss as he sliced the fabric from waist to neck, then cut through the shoulders and slipped it off me, discarding it somewhere.

The air played over my naked skin, raising goose bumps and causing my nipples to pucker, as he continued. "I would not touch most of the people in this world with so much as the tip of my little finger—including some who are purer and more beautiful than you—but it is _you_ who draws me," he mused.

As if to prove his point, his hand, large, solid, and very warm, descended on my left breast, where he toyed with the nipple, pinching it and tugging on it. He was not hurting me, oh no. Then his other hand joined with my other breast.

Some strange alchemical change had occurred in me, I was exuding oil, which gathered and pooled between my legs, a volatile oil, which wanted only a spark—and I had to stifle a little sound of protest when his hands left my breasts. They slid to my waist, where he untied my pants and slid them down my legs and off, continuing to speak as he did so.

"You have come to obsess me. You know, of course, that you are monitored at all times, in all places—but you do not know that I review everything and all that concerns you. I know your preferences—I know your habits. I know, for example, that you like to read erotic fiction at night, and that when you do, your heart beat quickens, your breath comes faster, your blood pounds more strongly through your veins, your brain activity flares up," he said, hooking his fingers into my panties, and drawing them off, "building, accelerating until a there is great burst—and I can guess what you have been doing. Something like—this."

His hand touched my belly, skimmed lightly downward, until his fingers dipped—. He began to stroke. I did gasp—I had to. "Is this what you do?" he asked.

"Yes." I managed, and added, "I had no idea that—that body telemetry could be measured so precisely from a distance. Or that you had taken such an interest in me, my—Lord!" The last was more like a squeal— and completely involuntary, at that. He had slipped a finger deep inside me

"That is a more complete answer than was truly called for, but I will let that pass this once. You are _passionate_— for you often do _this, _two, three, even more times a night, until you sleep, just in order to get to sleep," he continued, as he sought out my recesses with that finger. "I know more than that about you. I also know that as of seven weeks ago, at your last physical, you were still a virgin—and I perceive," he said, as he slipped another finger in me and made me wince—"you are one still. Has there really been no one? Neither man nor woman? I would scarcely believe it—except that I know where you are at all times, I know who you meet, and where."

"No one." I replied, as I adjusted to the burning sensation, the stretching and pulling. "Nothing even approaching _this_." My voice was uneven, unsteady. I arched my head back.

His voice dropped. "Do you have any idea what it does to me—knowing what you are doing, only a few floors and rooms away—smoldering, untouched by any hand save your own? Unsatisfied and aching? And knowing that any day, any night, any _hour_, you might find someone—someone_ else_ to relieve you of the burden of your virginity? For it is a burden to you, isn't it?"

"Yes. I didn't know. I don't know." I was climbing, yes, I was, despite the discomfort, I was getting close…

"It is a torment such as I have not known since I was sixteen. It is actual physical agony. But I am nothing if not generous." He abruptly stopped what he was doing, and I moaned in bereavement.

His voice took on that sardonic tone which infuriated costumed adventurers all over the world. "I am prepared, not only to forgive you—but to alleviate your sufferings—to give you what you need and want so desperately, and take what you want to be rid of—and I will. But you must meet my conditions." He paused.

"What are they, my lord?" I asked, finally.

"I don't recall asking a question. I will indulge you, and answer anyway. If I am to do this for you, there must _be_ _no one else. _Not even yourself. You are to save your desires for me, and bring them to me. No matter how long it may be—no matter how great your needs. Do you understand, and agree?" His hand rested on my inner thigh.

"Yes." I would have agreed to a lot more than that, at that moment. "I understand. I agree."

"I am glad of that. I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you for a few minutes now, my dear. But I will continue where I left off."

With that he left the room, leaving me on the point of boiling over, shackled so that I could not possibly allay my own agony, even had I meant to break our agreement so soon.

TBC…

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**A/N:** I got an e-mail recently (not from this website) that said that answering reviews in a chapter is now prohibited. I don't know if that's true. I'm worried, so I won't put any shout-outs until I hear where/when/ what/ why. I do appreciate your reviews, however, and I hope you'll leave them anyway. 

That having been said, I do intend to delve into Doom's Romany background—not in the way that gypsies are usually portrayed, but as they truly are today—a people left behind by an increasingly high-tech world, living in poverty, ignorance, and illiteracy.

I also intend to ignore the events of the Unthinkable story arc, which I absolutely hate and despise.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay. Warning! The mature stuff continues—and yes, it is edited—, but only for part of the chapter. After that, the story picks up, and the next several chapters will have nothing in them to make anybody blush…

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I heard his footsteps, metallic and harsh, die away as Doctor Doom ascended to his chambers above. What with costumed adventurers stopping by every so often to try to oust my liege lord, the castle often had to have some part or other rebuilt, and most recently, it had been his tower. He had made considerable changes in the process; it was now more than two stories taller. I found myself wondering just what those changes had been…

I was still shackled to the chaise lounge as he had left me, blindfolded and fraught with desire. It seemed as if I had a second heart between my legs, which beat and throbbed with sweet frustration. I stretched my legs, bent them and drew my knees up. Being blindfolded had added to my state of tension—not knowing where or when the next caress would follow.

My protracted, troubling, troublesome innocence would soon come to an end. I would welcome the pain of initiation, for the sake of the fulfillment to follow.

But I was afraid as well. Working for Doctor Doom was not like working for any ordinary man—it was more like working to defuse a ticking bomb; having to guess which wire would stop the countdown, fearing, even while I cut it, that it was rigged to detonate anyway, or that my well-intentioned action would set it off. It was difficult to say what he needed to hear while making it sound like what he wanted to hear.

Or perhaps it was like being a lion-tamer, even one who had great affection for the large cats she worked with, and they in turn, for her. Like that famous entertainer/trainer who was mauled by his own white tiger, one could never forget that it was not human, nor a house cat —and one day, out of anger, whim, or misplaced playfulness, could come the great swipe of a razor-clawed paw, bearing with it pain, disfigurement, even death.

I was in such a state that I desired consummation far more than mere bland safety, however.

A seeming eternity later, I heard sounds—the sounds made by someone approaching.

It did not sound like him

I tensed up, the erotic fog burning off in a sudden surge of fear. Who might it be, if it was not him?

He had ordered me not to speak, except to answer questions. I spoke out anyway.

"Who is there?" I asked of the void.

"I am," came the voice of Doom. "Is something wrong?"

"I couldn't tell who it was—you didn't sound as you normally do."

He had been coming closer to me all the while. Now the chaise shook as he joined me on it. Cool velvet brushed my naked flesh, as he bent over me, his hands on either side of my head to support him.

"Ah, but I could hardly continue in full armor. Not only could I not feel your tempting skin—"I guessed that the velvet must be a robe. "—but it wasn't designed for activity of this sort. It would be cold, hard, and, owing to the servomotors, possibly fatal to you—which I would find distasteful. And besides, there is also—this."

He kissed me. He had removed his mask.

The kiss began as gently as the way he had touched my face earlier, but it quickly became more urgent, even savage. I could hardly believe this was happening, as his tongue uncurled and glided between my lips to touch mine. I noticed, deliriously, that there were unevennesses to his lips, a ridge here, a roughness there—I realized it that it must be scar tissue I was feeling.

His face was a mystery that the entire world wondered about; it was right there, uncovered, before me—and I was the one who was masked. I returned his kiss with even greater force, and he moved a hand to my breast.

Instinctively, I tried to raise my arms, to return his embraces, to search and find where he wanted to be touched, but the chains clanked as they drew me up, far short. He did not want that from me—not now, and perhaps not ever.

He broke the kiss finally, and shifted, the chaise creaking as he slid down my body to kiss first one breast and then the other, returning to the first to nurse and suckle at it, flicking my nipple with his tongue, while he teased the other with his hand, wringing a shuddering groan from me.

He paused and sat up; the velvet swept back and forth over me before it disappeared—he had taken off the robe. Now we were skin against skin, all over, everywhere. He was a large man, built solidly—not fat, but hard muscle.

He climbed back up my body to claim my mouth again. While he kissed me, he sent one hand traveling down…

It was a long kiss, but it did eventually end, and when it did, he began to speak again. "Now, what is this here? Something like an orchid, serving as the gate to a garden—a very tropical garden. I'd like to visit that garden—but the door is barred. Now, what shall I do?"

I couldn't think of what to say. I had never imagined this situation, and even if I had, out of all the moods of Victor Von Doom that I had ever witnessed—and I had witnessed quite a few—playfulness had never been one of them. The language he used didn't surprise me—he loathed vulgarity in all its forms. He wasn't about to say f--- even while he was doing just that.

Anyway, right then I could focus on little but what was going on.

"You're going to have to tell me." he coaxed.

I found my voice. "Break down the door. Slowly!" I added.

"Is that what you want?" he queried.

"Yes!" I gasped out.

"Then you shall have it,"

It hurt. It hurt, and not in a way I had been expecting, not the way it was written about in the novels and stories, not like a little barrier breaking, followed by ecstasy and the end of all discomfort. It was a deeper, intramuscular pain. I wanted to brace myself against it, but I remembered that relaxing was supposed to make it easier.

That part of me was muscle, and an unused muscle stiffens up. A never-used muscle hurts when it's finally stretched—. I bit my lip, wincing against the pain. Every centimeter he sank in made me ache further.

It did nothing to dispel my arousal…

"I'm glad," he informed me, "that you're not weeping or pleading with me to stop. That would be quite tedious of you—there!"

"And now—," he put his hands under my buttocks and lifted me up a little so he could slide forward. As my legs wrapped around his waist, his right hand went to my clitoris, and he began to strum it, thrusting in and out gently, rocking on his heels. I could feel an incredible tension building in his body as he moved against me.

"Yes—"he growled, deep in his throat, "a very nice place to visit."

There is no metaphor for what happens to me more apt than a rollercoaster ride-the long steady climb to the first summit, a moment of weightlessness, and then—I could feel that building, despite the intense discomfort I still felt.

"But," he continued, "am I welcome here? I want to know that my efforts on your behalf are being appreciated."

"Yes—" I gasped, "And may I say—that your selflessness moves me—no—it touches me deeply—Oh!"

He chuckled. He actually chuckled! "Sometimes my magnanimity astounds even me." I could hear a grin in his voice.

Doom had made a joke. I was practically in shock.

Then I crested the first peak, and my orgasm was upon me. Nothing would stop it now; it would go until it ended on its own.

He immediately reacted by lunging forward and starting to move in earnest. I had felt him straining to stay in control while he pleasured me, and, achieving that, he allowed his own to overtake him.

What followed was hard, fast and driving. He grasped my hips with both hands, then he cried out wordlessly. He groaned and snarled through to the end, which was a long time coming.

He collapsed on me, spent. I couldn't hold him in my arms, but I could wrap my legs around him, so I did, and laughed out of sheer happiness.

He laughed with me. Inside me, I could feel him twitch, soften, retreat, which gave me a strange internal tickle.

We lay there for a timeless time in the silence of pleasurable exhaustion. He finally stirred, raised himself up on an elbow, and began to trace my lips with a finger. "You came," he said, triumphantly. "I made you come. Your first time, and I made you come."

Self-satisfaction was one of his moods that I knew well. Anyhow, from what I had heard from friends about their own deflorations, he had every right to be smug.

"Enormously, my lord." I agreed with him. It is always safe to agree with him, but it is best when it's true.

"While ordinarily you might only be getting started, you are new to this, so I shan't importune you further tonight—and you may speak freely again now."

He stood. I heard him move around the room before he returned to unlock my shackles. I sat up and stretched my arms. He hooked a finger under the elastic of the sleep mask and removed it, too.

"May I open my eyes now?" I asked.

"Of course." He was standing before me in a grey velvet robe.

He was wearing a mask again, a different one than the one he wore with the armor. It was held on his head with a cap-like arrangement of straps, like a welder's mask. His hair was dark brown, with a few threads of silver salted through it.

He handed me the sleep mask. "You will want to keep this. There is something I want to make perfectly clear. Whenever I choose that we should be intimate, you will wear this or one like it. You will not remove it until I say you may. If I choose to spend the night beside you, you will not peek at me while I sleep, as Psyche did to Cupid. Most significantly and to the point, you will never attempt to see my face. That is something I will not countenance—an offense I will never forgive. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord." I bowed my head. Now that my mind was no longer clouded by frustration and lust, the cold water of potential consequence was waking me up fast. What had I done? What would happen now?

I wasn't afraid of getting pregnant, as I had used oral contraceptives to ease my menstrual cycles for five years now—nor was I afraid of contracting a disease from him, as sex with someone who has touched no one else in over ten years could hardly be safer. But now that I was Doom's lover, everything was complicated.

"Very good." he replied. I found my underwear and trousers and put them on, but without a top, how was I supposed to get back to my suite? I turned to see him holding out a silk robe.

"Thank you." I said, as I slipped it on. It wasn't mine, but it fit me well. It looked and felt new, and it was cinnamon colored, a shade I often wore.

"You're almost certainly tired, and I am sure you will want to bathe." he informed me. "Come upstairs."

"To your bathroom?" I asked, surprised.

"No, to yours." he said, and then added something that shocked and terrified me more than anything else which had occurred in the past two hours. "You are my wife now, after all."

"Your wife?" I cried.

"I am an honorable man," Doom told me, proudly. "I promised you would not suffer for this; I promised you would only rise higher in my esteem. If I did not marry you, you would become the subject of rumors, vile gossip, and calumny. Those of my lackeys who did not insult you to your face would toady to you and insult you behind your back. In any case, I have no taste for squalid assignations and the to-ing and fro-ing that would go on in the middle of the night. It will be much simpler if we are married."

Latveria is not like America. There is an ancient and obscure law which gives the ruler of Latveria the right, for the good of the state—as determined by the ruler, of course—to take as consort any woman, regardless of her marital status or feelings in the matter. No ceremony or license is necessary—and should the match not prosper, no divorce.

Doom was an absolute monarch. I thought about another absolute monarch from history: King Henry the Eighth of England. His will was all—and what of his wives? Six of them—divorced, beheaded, dead from childbirth—at least that fate was unlikely today—another divorced, another beheaded, the last outliving him by the skin of her teeth.

At least I had learned to school my face. The shock showed, but the dismay did not.

He grew impatient. "Have you anything to say, my dear?"

I swallowed. "I am not worthy of the great honor you would do me, my lord. That I should be—should be your lover is more than I ever dreamed of. That is enough for me."

He was pleased by my answer. "I find your modesty most charming, and it does you credit. But if I find you worthy, then you are. Come!" He beckoned me to climb the stairs.

I went, wincing a little as I pulled on all the muscles that had been stretched in unfamiliar directions. The stone staircase turned and wound upward, and as I climbed, my mind worked frantically. What was I going to do? If he tired of me, or if I displeased him, he almost certainly wouldn't bother to divorce me. Anne Boleyn, Henry the Eighth's second wife and Elizabeth the First's mother, went to the block on trumped up charges of treason, witchcraft, incest and adultery—but it was really because she couldn't give Henry a son.

What was I going to do? Call on some costumed adventurer for rescue?

"The announcement of our marriage will be made tomorrow morning," he said, as we climbed the stairs. "You will want to tell your mother before that. Perhaps we shall do so together." By my mother he meant, not my birth mother, but the kind and good Latverian woman who claimed me as hers.

More nightmare. What about her? She was a widow, and I, her only 'child'. What would he do to her if I balked, ran away, defected? She would have to come along. What then? All my savings were in banks that Doom controlled. I would have no resources.

He was still talking. "There will be a public ceremony, of course. The people of Latveria should bear witness to such an important event of my reign. It will be held in one week. It could be held tomorrow, except that I thought to allow you time to have a dress made. I understand such things are important to a bride."

He paused, seeming to wait for an answer.

"Thank you, my lord," I said, obediently.

"Here we are—your rooms, my dear." He opened the door wide, gesturing that I should go in.

I gasped. It was beautiful. It was like a museum or a historical site. It was like Rebecca's room in the Hitchcock movie of the same name, lacking nothing in grandeur, elegance, luxury. The furnishings were a gentle blue-green. Like the silk robe, it was a shade I often wore.

But it looked nothing like a room that belonged to me, or ever could.

"It's too beautiful, my lord. I haven't the words." I managed.

"My own chambers are through here." He pointed to a door. "Naturally, you will not enter them except when I have specifically invited you."

"Of course, my lord." I replied.

"Then I will bid you good night." he said, and waited.

It took me only a split second to realize what he was waiting for. I went to him and twined my arms around his neck. This mask had an open space for his mouth, without a piece of grillwork in the hole. I could kiss him through the aperture, and did.

"I'm still dazed." I said, truthfully. "It'll be days before I can believe this is real."

"Will this help to convince you?" He slipped a hand inside my robe.

"No—but it will make me want to do again what I really am too sore to enjoy right now."

"Abandoned creature." Victor Von Doom chuckled. "I really am quite fond of you, you know."

"And I of you, my lord." I replied, automatically.

That didn't make it untrue, though. I did care about him. I had cared long before this.

Besides, I needed him for other reasons. An Ancient Greek philosopher had said he could move the world, if only he had a big enough lever and a place to stand. I was trying to move the world, with Latveria as my place to stand, and Doom as my lever…

"Good night, then."

"Good night."

He closed and locked the door between us.

I wondered if I were being locked in or locked out.

Did it matter?

I remembered my comparison of how working for Doom was like lion-taming as I looked around the room. What a lovely cage I was going to be sharing with a lion…

I really was feeling dazed by all that had happened. Two hours ago or so, I had been enjoying an after-dinner read in the library, and now…

I wandered over to the vast, curtained bed that dominated the room. It rose so high that there were stairs to assist me into it. Of course it was a poem of comfort. I looked at the elaborate and sturdy bedstead from a different perspective than I would have done that morning. The way it was made—the high, arching canopy, the posts, the pierced and carved headboard and footboard—convinced me it had been chosen, or, more likely, made to maximize the possible configurations for restraints.

Clearly, all of that celibacy had done something to Doom. He was now determined to enjoy himself, and had picked me to help. Lucky me…I was only being half-facetious.

I got down off the bed and wandered over to one of the doors opposite the entryway. It proved to be a bathroom, although if someone had mistaken it for a greenhouse or even a rainforest grotto, it would have been understandable, because the outside wall was mostly glass and there were several dozen orchids in full bloom scattered around the room.

The bathtub was also glass. I was sticky all over, and a bath seemed like an excellent idea, so I hunted around for handles and a faucet. All I found was a touch pad, and after a moment, I figured out that what I had to do was enter the temperature of water I wanted, and it would well up silently in the tub. I chose 37 degrees Celsius—blood heat.

I found some bath salts and put them in, then went looking around while the tub filled. The shower stall was shale and teak and resembled a cascade in a forest glen. After I discovered the Linen Closet of the Gods, full of enough towels to last a year, I found that the toilet and bidet had a room all to themselves, with an attendant sink—one of three.

This bathroom was larger than the entire suite I had occupied up until then.

My reaction to all of that surreal luxury was not: Look at this! And it's mine! All mine! It was panic. I couldn't live there. I couldn't live up to all that.

After a moment's reflection, I calmed down. It wasn't really there to pamper me. It was there for him. He would be using these rooms also, presumably often, and he had had it fitted out as he wanted it. There are certain forms of self-indulgence that men consider effeminate, and however much they might enjoy them, they would never permit themselves to do so without a woman on hand…for whatever reason. His own bathroom was probably Spartan and minimalistic.

I laid the beautiful robe over a chair near the tub, slipped out of the trousers and underwear, and slid myself into the tub. I hoped I wasn't going to have to clean and maintain all this. The castle maids had cleaned even my little closet of a bathroom, however, so of course they would take care of the Master's wife's suite…

That was when it hit me, and I began to shiver in a tub full of hot water.

I was going to be, or, according to him, already was, the wife of Victor Von Doom.

He was honorable, generous, responsible, and brilliant beyond genius. He had turned out to have an unexpected sense of humor, and had proven to be a passionate lover. He had been both gentle and considerate with me. I appreciated all of those qualities, deeply.

But he was also vain, capricious, paranoid, power-mad, vicious, prone to violence, and dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

I should do anything to get away from him. But I had known he was dangerous long before I went to sit in the embassy every day for a week, waiting to see if he would grant me an audience. I knew before… That was partly why I had gone to him, with my secret plans locked in my brain, to convince him it would be to his advantage to hire me.

He was also decidedly kinky. If restraints and domination put in an appearance during our first encounter, I could only wonder what would surface once he loosened up over time. I attributed the blindfold to his vanity and paranoia, however. Sometimes a cigar is only a cigar.

As I thought about what we had done together on that chaise, a wave of sense memory swept over me. I had liked it. I liked him. I had liked all of it. I had liked the mystery, the uncertainty of the blindfold.

Rather than binding me, the restraints and the blindfold had set me free. Without them, I would, knowing me, have been stiff, awkward, and self-conscious. I would have been worrying if he—who ever he might have been—thought my breasts were too small or my butt too big. I would have worried that my skin was pasty, and if I were being too passionate, too eager, too desperate. I probably would have been too nervous to enjoy it. But instead—instead I had thought only of what was going on. Once I consented, every thing that followed had been out of my hands, and I had relaxed.

I was kinky, too. I had a kink complementary to his. I was looking forward to what would come, to exploring where this would lead. The pleasure was an addiction.

I wasn't going to leave him. I wasn't even going to try.

I reflected that I was, in several different ways—there was no other word for it—

Doomed.

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A/N: Please review. You don't have to sign it if you're embarrassed. 


	4. Chapter 4

I woke up in the morning in that tall bed with hangings the color of the sea, and rather than disorientation or confusion, I remembered everything clearly and in great detail. What was going to happen now? I sat up and gave myself the once-over. I was just fine, physically, perhaps a little sore but not badly. Doom had left marks where he gripped me, but they were slight, and just below the surface. I couldn't even call them bruises.

I drew the bed curtains and stepped down. If the room had been lovely the night before, it was breathtaking now. I drew the sheers back from the floor–to–ceiling windows that made up two-thirds of the outer wall. The windows were twice my height; the room's proportions were lofty.

The view was even more so. I was looking towards the mountains in back of the castle, and their noble blue-grey heights rose cleanly and magnificently out of the forest to the sky. Of course it is hard to look anywhere in Latveria and not see mountains. It is an extremely mountainous country, and the joke is that there are more square meters on the vertical than there are horizontal.

Latveria is a very small country, and while we do produce several very fine beers and the cameo glass factory turns out works of art in the same way that it has done for two centuries, these things do not pay for new roads and competitive schools and state-of-the-art medical facilities, nor are they the reason why tiny little Latveria is anything like a global power. There is only one reason why Latveria is a first world country in the middle of the former Soviet Block, and only one reason why the United Nations takes any notice of us, and that reason goes about in full armor in a dark green cape. Doom.

Latveria is also an extremely cold country, although for the last three years the snow cap on the top of Mount Doom, our highest peak, has melted away entirely. It was not an unexpected event—the great melt had been predicted and charted sometime before, but it was still a distressing problem. I was up on top the mountain some weeks before the first occasion, when Doctor Doom went up to see for himself exactly what it looked like.

It is possible to project all sorts of expressions on to the metal face that Doom shows to the world. Like a Kabuki theater mask, the play of light on its polished shell seems to convey emotion—viewed from one direction, he seems to smile, from another, to frown. But the mask itself never alters. The danger lies in reading too much into that seeming.

But that day, I had no trouble believing that what seemed to show was exactly how he felt. It seemed to be scowling. "That their infernal pollutions should reach out to corrupt Doom's homelands!" he bellowed at the sky.

Talking about himself in the third person is a very bad sign. After that he starts gesticulating as well, and then he pulls out the weapons of mass destruction and takes aim. That always spells trouble.

"Well, my lord," I commented. "The consolation is that we are sufficiently elevated that even if all the polar ice does melt and the mass flooding does occur, we'll be well out of range. And once we have fifteen more frost-free nights per growing season, we'll be able to raise tomatoes out of doors. We won't have to import them anymore."

Von Gretznau, another of Doom's aides, glared at me. "I hardly think you appreciate the seriousness of the situation, girl."

"You hardly think at all." rumbled Doom. "Black humor is one of the few rational responses to the situation. I see that I am going to have to do something about this."

He'd been distracted out of the third person; that was good.

What he did about it, however, was something even better. By the end of the year, Latveria had stopped using fossil fuels entirely, the first country on earth to do so, turning instead to a variety of clean, affordable, renewable energy sources. It is no longer legal to bring into, or drive, a gasoline powered vehicle in Latveria; they are stopped at the border.

Once Latveria set the example, (and once Doom made the technology available) the rest of Europe began to follow suit. Germany was next; Sweden followed.

In the meantime, America continues to pollute away, and is embroiled in a war over oil—again.

I turned away from the windows and looked around the room once more.

There were two bedside tables. I had not noticed it before, but the one to the left had a note and a ring box on it.

The note read: 'Good morning. I trust you slept well. The formal announcement of our marriage will be made from the audience balcony at eleven. I will expect you at a quarter before. The servants are at your disposal. V. v. D.'

I looked at a clock on the mantle across the room. Not quite nine—that did not give me a lot of time. I called down for breakfast.

While I waited, I opened the ring box. Green is Doom's favorite color, and it was a good thing that I liked it, because the ring in that box was set with an extremely large square emerald, set in heavy gold scrollwork with diamonds all around it.

Another aspect of Doom's personality is a ferocious—nearly insane—competitiveness. It went without saying that this ring would be larger and more expensive than the one Reed Richards gave Sue Storm back when they got engaged, but Richards is not the only competition out there. The media had devoted a lot of coverage to the ring that Donald Trump gave his latest fiancée, so of course the ring Doom gave his bride had to be much rarer, more expensive, and more original. Fine emeralds, especially large ones, are much rarer than large diamonds. Of course it fit perfectly.

It was easier to think about 'Doom's bride' in the abstract, as if she were someone more appropriate than I was, in terms of power, fame, or rank—one of the X-men women, for example, or—Gisele Bundchen, or a scion of nobility, if there were any marriageable princesses about. I have no super powers, and although I was featured in the 'Sixty Minutes' feature on Latveria last year, I can't be called famous, and my mother taught school. No titles or noble blood ran in my family.

However, there was my intelligence, which must be less than his, or he would feel threatened by it, yet not so much less that he despises my intellect. That must be part of the attraction I had for him.

As for the rest—I remember very well the first time somebody objective called me beautiful. My mother said I was—so did Bisitra, the dressmaker down in Doomstadt. By objective, I mean someone male, and what was more, he didn't know I could hear him, or understand him if I did.

Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, was sitting in the window overlooking the courtyard garden. I was down in the garden, which was undergoing an archeological dig, looking at the sword hilt from the 13th century that had just been dug up. (The Fantastic Four are always in and out of Latveria for one reason or another.) I could hear him clearly when he said, "Look at her. The librarian type, in the skirt and blouse. These super villain guys always have babes like that around. I don't know where they find them."

I took a surreptitious look around the courtyard to see who he meant. Livia, the only woman around who could be called a babe by any standards, was wearing a wide hat and heavy coverall. She was besmirched to the eyeballs in dust as well, and was standing waist-deep in a trench. Then there was Professor Auerbach, who was a grandmother, and besides wearing a coverall as well, her figure was showing the effects of seven decades of gravity.

"She isn't showing off a lot." remarked Ben Grimm, the Thing. "No leg above the knee, and her top's buttoned up to just this side of stuffy."

The only person in the courtyard in a skirt and blouse was me.

"You don't have to see all the skin to know it's prime. She has a _sweet_ ass on her—."

"Hey!" interjected Sue Storm Richards. "That's enough of that kind of talk. She might speak English, you know."

"You think so?" asked the Torch, hopefully. "Maybe I could ask her down to the inn for a beer—or better still, some of that wicked plum brandy they make here. That stuff has got to be 180 proof."

"Come away from the window." urged his sister. "Honestly, Johnny, I can't take you anywhere…"

I was in a mild state of shock. I wasn't a babe. I was overweight—or I had been, because I had stopped eating an entire bag of Hershey's Kisses with lunch once I got my job, which undoubtedly had had something to do with it.

Then the first assignment I got after entering the service of Doom was to work with the Red Cross in coordinating the Serbian refugees who were flooding in from the southwest. I spent six months working with women, many of them pregnant, who were the victims of repeated rape, and with children who were suffering from malnutrition, body lice, and intestinal parasites. It just wasn't possible to have much appetite after that, and half the time I gave my lunch away to some child with skin that was stretched too tight over his bones.

But that didn't make me a babe. I still had the same face, which was a shapeless as a pudding, an ugly, awkward nose, and a small chest… I turned to see my reflection in one of the windows—and almost didn't recognize myself.

I had cheekbones now; when had that happened? My nose was still the same, but my chest was now in much better proportion to the rest of me. The other differences were harder to define.

Was this something Doom had done to me? He was known for occasionally using his minions as guinea pigs, to bring out some latent super power in them—but I had asked for, and got, his word that he wouldn't do anything like that to me…

I went up to my room, got out an old photo album, and looked at myself from sixteen years in the past, when I was I was seven, the last time I had been happy as a child. No, my face was still my face. I was older and larger, but not substantially different. I just hid my ears now so they didn't stick out like jug handles, that was all.

It wasn't enough. The belief in my own unattractiveness wasn't going to evaporate just like that. So I did something a bit childish and naive—I went off to ask someone.

As Susan Richards left the guest suite, I cleared my throat. "Oh—hello." she said. "Did Doom send you for something?" she asked.

"No—I—I overheard what your brother said earlier."

Her face changed—she winced. "Oh, that. I'm sorry. It was a rude thing for him to say—Julia? Is that your name?"

"Joviana, actually. No, I wasn't offended. What I meant to do was ask you—did he mean it when he called me a babe? Don't worry, I'm not interested in him." I added hastily. "He's not nearly mature enough for me and in any case, it would be so unsuitable for me to get involved with him. I only wanted to know—am I beautiful?"

My voice broke on the last word, as the insults and jeers of hundreds of playground hours clogged my throat.

"Um—well—Why are you asking me?" she inquired, sensibly enough.

"Because you're beautiful, so you should know. And you're honest and kind."

"Thank you. Yes—you are. In an unconventional way, I mean. You definitely don't look American. And you act like a beautiful woman. I don't mean you act proud or stuck up, but I saw you on 'Sixty Minutes', and you stand up straight, you have confidence and poise, and you're obviously happy about who you are and what you do—for some reason." she ended, with a dubious tone in her voice.

"You think so? You don't think I should have something done about my nose? I've always hated it."

"No—I wouldn't, if I were you. It makes your face interesting, and your chin would be out of proportion if your nose was any different."

"Thank you…" I wandered off, deep in thought.

"Glad I could help." She smiled, and went down the hall.

I wasn't sure that what she had said about my looks added up to beauty, but it certainly seemed to indicate that I was at least attractive, which I had never felt as though I was, and it made me happy.

That evening, Doom said to me, "I would not attach too much importance to what John Storm said about you." Anything that is said in the castle gets back to him very swiftly.

That squashed my new-sprouted self-esteem very quickly and thoroughly, until he added, somewhat obscurely, "It takes little wit to recognize a diamond once it has been cut and polished. Your bone structure was always good. When you were overweight it was not obvious—but it was there."

I decided that was a back-handed compliment. "Thank you, my lord."

In retrospect…

I shook myself out of my reminiscence, and called my mother.

* * *

A/N: Although I have found nothing on the FF site that forbids the answering of reviews as yet, the rumor prevents me from answering. Rest assured, I live for feedback. Please review. 


	5. Chapter 5

"Mother? It's me. Good morning." I said.

"Good morning, dear! Did you sleep well?"

"Just fine, Mother. Listen—can you get into your best outfit and get up here to the castle right away? It's—sort of an emergency. I'll tell security to expect you."

"Yes, but why? What's going on? I was going to the dressmaker's this afternoon—."

"Great! Perfect! I'll come along. What time?" I had one week to get an appropriate dress ready.

"One o'clock. What's going on, dear one?" It was a reasonable question.

"Momma—I'm getting married." I had to say it sometime.

"Joviana!" She sounded slightly hurt; she thought I'd been shutting her out. "That's—I didn't even know there was anyone you were seeing. Who is he? It is a 'he', isn't it?"

"Yes, it's a he," — very much a he, "I'm—It's the Master."

She was silent for a long moment. "Von Doom himself?" she asked.

"Um, yes." I said, sheepishly.

She started crying. "Momma—please don't—it's all right."

"Of course it's all right, darling—these are _happy_ tears. Oh, I thought this would happen! It isn't just that you're lovely, but you're so intelligent—."

My mother believes in me like no one else on Earth. I love her dearly.

"When did this happen, Jovia? I mean, were you and he—?"

"Last night. I didn't know he had that sort of regard for me, either. It was—very unexpected." I could say that without giving away details.

"You can tell me, dear—I won't be angry, I swear! Is there a chance that you—could be expecting?" she whispered.

"Ah—no." I realized suddenly that now I was going to have all of Latveria watching my middle for signs of the next generation of Von Dooms. Great. Just what I needed. And I had no idea whether or not he might want children. He is a man who has no half measures; either he wouldn't want any at all, or else he would want several.

"Do you know if he—I mean, I'd love being a grandmother." she said, plaintively.

"He hasn't made his wishes known—I mean, we haven't discussed it yet, Mother."

Exactly what sort of relationship were Doom and I going to have? Would we discuss such matters, or would I simply have to acquiesce or fight what he wanted? "Look, we can talk when you get here, there's going to be a formal announcement at eleven. I've got to figure out what to wear—and I'm not in my old rooms anymore. I'll have someone show you up."

"Of course, dear one. I'll be there directly."

She hung up.

It's strange how much I've come to love my Latverian mother, despite the fact that she neither gave birth to me nor raised me, although she believes she did both…

It was four days after I arrived in Latveria, almost three years ago. Doom summoned me, and when I entered the room, he said, "Good day, Joviana."

"Joviana." I said, trying out the sound. "That's what my new name will be, then."

"Yes. Joviana Ilys Florescu. You have the materials I commanded you to bring? Come!" We were in the complex in the mountains then, not the castle, and he led me into the depths of it, through corridors of brushed adamantium, a labyrinth underground, to a room with a mirror glass panel set in the wall.

Through it, I could see a woman about thirty years my senior. She had a photo album open on her lap, and she was paging through it. She touched a page as if it were her child's cheek. Her hair was silver, and her eyes were very dark and sad.

"That is Galina Florescu. She is a schoolteacher, a widow, and a bereft mother. Her only child, Joviana, died of leukemia ten years ago. She would have been your age."

"I understand. I'm going to assume her identity, and Mrs. Florescu will pretend I am her daughter, should it ever be called into question."

"You are half right." he told me. "You will assume the identity of her daughter, but she will not pretend that you are she. In five days time, she will believe you are her daughter, whose cancer has been in remission for ten years, who lived to grow up, went to study in the United States, and who has now returned home to take up a career in my service."

Perhaps it was something about the way I looked at him that led him to explain further.

"She has willingly consented to undergo the necessary conditioning. Indeed, she desires it. She has never overcome the loss of her child—now she will never have lost her. You have a part to play in this. Today you and she will become acquainted. You will hear about the significant details of Joviana Florescu's childhood, take possession of such trinkets and personal effects that her mother has kept for all these years, and the images from the photo album you carry, the album of your childhood, and the photo album she has with her will be used to create one in which your image replaces that of her dead child, in all the stages of life.

"Tomorrow, Mrs. Florescu will begin the conditioning, at the end of which she will unquestioningly choose your photograph from among those of thirty others as that of her daughter. Six days from now, you will go to visit her in her home, having just returned from America. The more time that you spend with her, the better the conditioning will hold. It is in your best interests, and hers, that you cultivate a good relationship with her."

"Very well, my lord. I will."

"There is the door." He gestured to it. "Your mother is waiting for you."

I do have a good relationship with her, which means more than I will ever be able to express, after the emotional abyss that was life with my birthmother. I even eat her eggplant dishes, although I think it's a hideous slimy abomination, because the other Joviana loved eggplant, and I do not want to cause my mother distress and confusion.

I have realized, since then, how subtle he was, when he did what he did then. He guessed how much I wanted someone to replace my grandmother, who had raised me until I was seven, the only real mother-figure in my life, whose loss I had never overcome, and he provided me with a mother—and a tie to Latveria, which ultimately meant a tie to him. It was either manipulative—or compassionate. Perhaps both.

I realized that I was neither clean nor dressed. That had to change. I called back down stairs. I wasn't sure how to relate to the servants anymore. Before, I had always taken the approach that we were all of us in Doom's service, and that keeping the castle clean and running was important too. I never had the authority to give orders, prior to this.

"I need all of my things to be brought from my—my former rooms up to here, immediately, beginning with my clothes. Would you be so kind as to organize that, please?" I asked the steward on the other end of the line.

"Of course, miss. What else can we do to assist you?" He sounded tentative, unsure of my status now.

"When should I expect breakfast to arrive?" I asked.

"In no more than fifteen minutes, miss." That was just about enough time to shower.

"Can you put an extra cup on the tray for my mother? She will be joining me shortly, and she'll need someone to show her up. Please tell security to expect her."

"Certainly, miss."

"That will be all for now. Thank you." I hung up. Well, at least I hadn't embarrassed myself. I went off to take my shower.

That incredible bathroom, like the bedroom, was only more impressive in the light of day. As I got clean under the rainforest cascade, I wondered what the castle staff were making of my sudden elevation. Doom has audio and video pick-ups in every room of the castle, as well as, (as I now knew for certain), even more subtle and sophisticated ways of detecting everything that was going on. But the housekeeping staff was not far behind him in knowing everything, and, unlike Doom, they would cheerfully speculate, exaggerate, and fabricate what they didn't know.

I got out of the shower and into a towel just in time. Breakfast arrived, brought by two maids, one to act as waitress, the other to open doors. The waitress goggled openly at my bedroom; the other girl was subtler about it. Both were perfectly pleasant, while their eyes darted this way and that, taking in details to share below stairs, until they spotted the big green traffic light of a ring on my left hand. Then they became extremely respectful. I was upgraded from 'Miss' to 'my lady'. My sense of unreality increased.

While I ate, my clothing began to arrive, via a mule train of about half-a-dozen maids. Amid that traffic, my mother arrived, as I was spooning up the last of the wild strawberries. (It had been an excellent breakfast.)

She appeared, a silver-haired maternal vision in a rose-pink suit, with a scarf I gave her knotted loosely at her throat, and hugged me immediately, tears welling in her beautiful dark eyes. "Jovia," she said, looking around in awe.

"I know. Momma, I'm scared half out of my wits, and I'm to meet—my lord" (I could not call Doom 'Victor' yet, not even in the privacy of my own head.) "in a little less than an hour for the announcement fifteen minutes later. I have no idea what I should wear."

The dressing room and closets were on the same scale as the bedroom and bathroom in every way, but Doom had not seen fit to provide an entire new wardrobe, for which I was very grateful. That meant I did not have to have another panic attack as I was clothed in whatever new persona he expected of me.

After some debate of the pleasantest kind, my mother and I had agreed on the merits offered by a wood smoke-blue silk dress, which would give my pale skin some color. We also agreed that a hat would be just too 'Princess Di', which meant that something had to be done about my hair.

One of the maids, a woman about twenty years older than I, produced a steamer out of nowhere, and began taking the closet creases out of my chosen dress before I put it on. When she observed me fighting with my hair, she discreetly asked, "My lady, are you aware that there are several cameras being set up in preparation for the announcement at eleven? Apparently it will be going out world-wide on TV and over the internet."

When I looked at her in horror, she said, "I have two daughters. I know something about hair and make-up. May I offer my assistance?"

I could only reply, "Please."

Once she was done, and I looked at the smooth, sleek, dewy appearance I would present to the world, I asked, "Can I conscript you, on a trial basis, as my wardrobe and image assistant?" It had a more dignified sound than 'lady's maid', and to me a 'dresser' is a piece of furniture, not a person. She smiled and said she would be honored.

I was uncertain about simply hiring her like that, because half of me thought I ought to ask Doom's permission, while the other half insisted I was a grown woman and there were some decisions I should make on my own. If he was going to put me in front of cameras unprepared, I needed help. If he said anything about it, I would tell him that I did not want to present a poor appearance, as it would reflect badly on him.

That would work, as the first thing to remember in dealing with Doom, was that it was always all about him. We are, all of us, the centers of our own private universes; Doom simply requires that others recognize it as well.

And so, at about 10:33, comfortably early, I went forth, prepared…Prepared to meet my Doom. So to speak.

My mother came along, of course. The public address balcony has a 'green room' of sorts, a chamber from which one—all right, from which Doom steps out to address the people of Latveria. Nobody else has cause to use the balcony. But everybody who is sufficiently important watches from that room. Today it was as packed as I had ever seen it. I spotted the bishop there, who I had never seen there before, looking corpulent and puzzled. Now I knew who would be performing the actual ceremony…

I became aware that I was attracting some attention (even without displaying my left hand, and that ring). I don't normally show up for work in long silk dresses; Doom is not one for garden-party diplomatic functions. Nor do I bring my mother with me…I was quite glad to bump into Albert, the Secretary of the Treasury.

Albert Cleary is an expatriate who took Doom up on his job offer after the last presidential election in America, the results of which did not please him. He makes an excellent Treasurer. He is the only black American in the entire country, and he bewilders the youth of Latveria by persistently refusing to dress, talk, or act gangsta. I'm not sure which country this reflects more poorly on—America, for flooding the media, or Latveria, for swallowing it.

"Good morning, Joviana." he said. "Are you in on this one?" He gestured to encompass the camera crew. "All I know is that 'he' told me this is what that big block of undesignated funds in the budget was for." A waitress came past with a tray of champagne glasses; she put them on a table, and the wine steward went to work on them.

"Ye-es." I admitted. "But I can't clue you in. You've met my mother, haven't you?"

"Yes. Nice to see you again, Mrs. Florescu."

"Likewise…" They chatted while I looked around. I noticed Boris beckoning to me from the window seat, and excused myself.

Boris is a full-blooded Rom, or Gypsy. He normally goes around in shabby, baggy old clothes. He's an elderly man now, and rather creaky. He's Doom's oldest retainer in both senses of the word—he is the oldest, and has been in Doom's service the longest. He's functionally illiterate, bathes at most once a week, and has only nominal duties.

But woe betide the official who crowds Boris on the stairs, or speaks slightingly of him, or sneers at his wretched old clothes, for Boris was the friend of Werner Von Doom, father of Victor Von Doom. When Werner Von Doom died, he left his son in Boris' care. Loyalty is another of Doom's virtues.

Today, Boris was wearing fresh, new looking clothes, a black suit and a white shirt, without a tie. That meant this was a special occasion indeed. He beamed at me, and took my hand in his, squeezing it firmly. "He told me. Well, he said months ago he wanted you for his wife, but he had to get the house ready first. I told him it was a grand idea. His parents wouldn't have wanted him to keep on like he has been, and I won't live forever, you know?" he said softly, keeping it just between us.

"Thank you, Boris." I replied. "That means more than you know." If I had any residual doubts as to Doom's motivation, Boris had just dispelled them. Although he might play with the lives and minds of anyone else, Doom would never deceive Boris. I did not have to worry about being set up as an assassination target, or worry about being sacrificed to some Lovecraftien thing from Beyond.

Then Doom entered, and everyone bowed or curtseyed as their gender or garb dictated. He nodded his approval, and then his eyes sought and found mine. A blushing bride is considered charming; I'm not sure what the opinion is of one who goes beet red, as I did.

"My loyal subjects…Know that today your monarch chooses to favor you by announcing to you, before the news is spread to Latveria and the rest of the world, that, in consideration of my own personal happiness, and for the good of the state…I have determined to take a wife. Last night, Joviana Florescu honored me by accepting my suit, and has consented to be my wife." He held out his hand to me; I stepped forward and took it. "The ceremony will be held in one week's time."

Gasps and applause came from the assembly. Then the waitresses distributed champagne around the room, and our health was drunk.

I got through the next quarter of an hour somehow or other, by smiling and blushing and saying 'thank you'. Then it was time for the announcement, which first was made in Latverian and then in English and several other languages for the rest of the world. Then there was a formal luncheon, for which I had little appetite, as I had only finished breakfast a little less than two hours before.

After that, we held a wedding planning session. Actually, it was not so much a planning session as it was an announcement, by Doom, that the ceremony would take place on the audience balcony, as it afforded the best view for the most people. The bishop would marry us, the only two attendants would be my mother and Boris, and then, a wedding feast for the two hundred formally invited guests. The people of Latveria who attended would enjoy a massive ox-roast at night, with plenty of beer, and then there would be a fireworks display.

"But what is to be done with all your guests in the between time?" asked the castle's major-domo. "Some sort of entertainment…?"

"I had not planned that." admitted Doom. He turned to me, and addressed me directly for the first time that day. "Have you any ideas, my dear?"

What I thought was, It's a good thing you're good in bed, because otherwise all of this would be a deal-breaker, but what I actually said was, "A Midsummer Night's Dream. The Shakespeare Theatre in Washington, DC mounted an excellent production this past season, and I know it's the one they're going to be taking on the road. If they can go to Stratford-upon-Avon, surely they can come to Latveria." It was one of my more inspired ideas—an unquestionably valid cultural and artistic event with good international relations and publicity to boot. It would even be educational. (I really would have preferred to have Tori Amos come and sing, but I have a good idea of the limits.)

"A very good idea." replied my fiancé. "See to it." he told the major-domo.

"Very good, my lord."

"I do have a question." The Bishop gave me an acidic look. "Are the traditional vows to be used, or does her Ladyship prefer not to promise to obey?"

That was a loaded question. Every eye in the room was fixed on me, and every feminist bone in my body—and I do have quite a few—braced itself. There was just no way I could win this one. There wasn't. I knew exactly what Doom's position was on obedience. He believed everyone owed it to him, and that most definitely included me. Choose your battles, I told myself. Cross your fingers when you say 'I will.'

Besides, I was really good at getting around the trouble spots in Doom's psyche. He will not tolerate anyone questioning the wisdom of his plans or actions, so of course I never do. However, to correct my own imperfect understanding, and to be sure that I don't, in my ignorance, get something wrong, I do ask questions—just to be sure that I comprehend him. When I think a particular plan is very, very, bad indeed, sometimes I have to become positively obtuse—until he hits on the problem.

Still, I truly did not want to say that I agreed to obey.

Fortunately, at that moment, the Fantastic Four chose to announce their immanent arrival.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you to all those who read. But Virtual Chocolate Mousse to all those who read and review! 


	6. Chapter 6

The Four were coming in under the white flag of truce this time; not only had they radioed it in, but the monitor showed Mr. Fantastic's silly-putty arm stretched out to about three meters, waving what looked like a tablecloth.

Everyone looked to Doom, who tapped the communicator key, and said, "It would be churlish to deny them entry under the circumstances. This is a day of celebration. Let it not be said that Doom cannot be gracious, even to an enemy."

Uh-oh. He was talking about himself in third person.

Most of the world believes that Doom wants Reed Richards dead. That is where they are mistaken. Subjugated, defeated, ground down into the dirt, made to grovel, yes, but dead, no. Ever see a pair of cats fighting? They don't fight to kill each other. They fight to win. And that is how it is between the two of them.

Doom hates Richards with such intensity that it is part of his very being, and if Richards were to be killed, it would leave an abyssal void, not merely in his life, but in his very psyche. If Reed Richards dies—permanently, that is—I can only hope that Doom isn't anywhere near something irreplaceable, because he will undoubtedly go on a destructive rampage, before falling into a depression so profound that no pharmaceutical could possibly lessen it.

Hating Richards is part of what makes him who he is. He needs Reed Richards—and, although I doubt Richards knows it—he needs Doom as well. They were created to oppose each other—the two smartest men in the world, the most alpha of alpha males in the scientific community…

I waited, slightly worried (on account of the third person usage), with everyone else as the Fantastic Four were granted entry, directed to a landing area for their 'Fantasticar', scanned, and escorted to the smaller dining room —smaller in that it can only seat a hundred comfortably—where we had been having lunch. Finally, they reached us, and as the Invisible Woman was part of the party, all the men rose at her entry.

The Thing looked truculent, the Human Torch looked sulky, Sue Storm Richards looked embarrassed, and Mr. Fantastic looked suspicious, as well he might, since Doom has not mounted a direct attack against them in years.

"Ah. Richards. You are come upon us in a happy hour. In one week, all of Latveria will be celebrating my marriage." He turned to me. "My dear, I don't believe you have ever actually met Dr. Richards. Richards—my bride, Joviana Florescu. And—in token of this occasion—." Doom removed his right gauntlet "I offer you my hand. 'By heaven, my soul is purged from grudging hate.'" he quoted, lightly.

I don't know if Richards is a literary sort of man. If he were acquainted with Shakespeare's Richard III, he would have recognized that line. It's from a scene in which a dying king tries to get all his warring factions to patch up their feuds before he dies. Deep insincerity is the order of the day, and everyone swears forgiveness and eternal love and friendship, which lasts exactly as long as it takes for the king to breathe his last. Most of them end up murdering each other. The look of suspicion on Richards' face did intensify, but that might not have been due to any familiarity with the play.

Doom stood there, his hand extended, and waited. The silence in the room seemed to become an entity unto itself, something enormous that squatted on the table between them and prevented them from reaching each other. Someone coughed, and I saw the Invisible Woman draw her foot back and kick her spouse sharply in the ankle.

"Ah!" he uttered, and, prompted, reached out and took his long-time rival's hand. The tension in the room evaporated. Smiles and nods broke out around the table.

"What brings you here today?" inquired my lord. "Come to offer your congratulations?"

"Yes!" Sue seized on that. "And our best wishes to you, of course." she said to me. "We hope that you will both be very happy. In fact—"she said to Doom, "Can you spare her for a while? I was hoping to have a chance to talk with her, woman to woman."

"I have no objections whatsoever." he demurred. "Unless you do not care to, my dear?"

"I was about to excuse my mother and myself soon in any event." I stood, and so did my mother, and all the men bobbed up as well. "We have an appointment down in the city. Would you care to come along?"

"Sure—that sounds like fun." she smiled brightly, if somewhat insincerely.

As soon as we got out of the room, and the door was shut behind us, Sue turned to me and said. "I'm so sorry about this. Believe me, it wasn't my idea, but Reed insisted."

"For the last three years," I commented. "I have assumed that everything I say will be overheard and recorded, and I've spoken accordingly—at least while I'm indoors." She got the hint, rolled her eyes, and nodded.

"Come on. The appointment's with our dressmaker. Let's go pick me out a wedding dress."

"You mean this really is as last-minute as it seems?"

"Yes…" I introduced her to my mother as we left the castle and headed down the hill.

"Do you think the castle will still be standing when we get back?" asked my mother, frivolously. "After all…we don't know why you came." She let it trail off.

"Oh, I'm sure it will be!" said Sue, and cast a glance back over her shoulder. "We really did come in peace." She took a deep breath. "We're here to find out if you need rescuing, first off. You did look a little bemused on the broadcast."

"Need rescuing?" cried my mother. "Of all the things!"

"No, but thank you." I said. "I admit I really don't like all this sudden attention, and the grandeur makes me very uncomfortable, but it seems like I'm going to have to put up with it if I want to be with him."

"I am very glad to hear you say that, dear one." said my mother into the silence that followed. "I didn't think you would marry for the sake of fame or money, but it's good to hear it, all the same."

"You don't think you might have been indoctrinated or enchanted or anything like that?" Sue asked. We continued walking down the hill to the city.

"No—and I've encountered enough examples of that over the course of my career—the Puppet Master, Mesmero, people like that—to recognize the symptoms. My psyche would be rebelling subconsciously, and I'd be having screaming nightmares. My dreams are untroubled. There isn't any thing unnatural about this." Just phenomenal sex…

"You really mean it….That makes the next part of this much harder, then." said the Invisible Woman.

"What's the next part?" I asked.

"Well, the second reason we're here is to try to talk you out of it, for your own good. Reed says he knows things about Doom from back in college that would make it extremely unwise for any woman to marry him, but he won't tell me what they are, and Ben says he doesn't know. I think I've done my part by telling you that, and I'm not going to say anything more about it. You're a grown woman, you've known Doom for years now, and as far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to make your own decisions. Is this the place? "

"Yes." The walk down into Doomstadt is a short one. The city itself is best described as picturesque and full of old-world charm—of the genuine kind, not the tourist trap sort. The houses are half-timbered and white-washed, with window boxes full of flowers, and the streets are cobble stoned.

Bisitra's dressmaking studio had a midnight-blue evening gown in one display window, shimmering with palettes and dyed feathers that started out a moonlight silver at the top, shading deeper as they went down to the hem, where they matched the dress perfectly. The other window had a woman's suit in cream colored tropical-weight wool.

"Nice." commented Sue. "Does she get her stock sent in from Paris?"

"No, she does it all herself." answered my mother. "She's been making both our clothes for years now."

"Is she responsible for that suit you're wearing?" the Invisible Woman asked her, as we went up the steps and entered.

"Yes."

"It's very well-cut."

Bisitra was pacing the floor and wringing her hands. "I know why you're here, and I have to tell you that I can't do it. I just can't. I can't make a suitable wedding gown in one week's time. Go—take a plane, fly to Rome, or Paris, or—."

"It's okay, Mom. Calm down." said her daughter Kira. Kira is a professional translator and a good friend of mine. She had a whole stack of bridal magazines, each one the size and thickness of a telephone book. "Of course you can do it. Sit down and grab a book; I'm just going to put the 'Appointment Only' sign on the door, or we'll have half the country traipsing through."

As she passed me, Kira jerked her chin in the direction of Sue, and hissed, "What is she doing here?"

"Being nice, if kind of interfering. It's her husband's fault." I said, under my breath.

"It would be. She's not going to destroy the shop, is she?"

I think most costumed adventurers would be shocked if they knew what a lot ofpeople really think of them. It isn't 'Oh, here they come to save the day,' but 'Oh, no. How bad is the property damage going to be?' New York alone suffers several billion dollars a year in losses due to the activities of costumed adventurers every year, and that doesn't even begin to address the psychological effects.

That's the sort of thing people always say something should be done about, but they never do it.

Except for me, of course…

We began leafing through Kira's stack of magazines. I soon noticed a pattern to the conversation:

"I like this one. Look at those sleeves!" said Kira, and passed the publication around.

"Noooo." Sue looked at it. "She's so tall that dangling sleeves will make her look like she has arms down to her knees." She passed it on to me.

"Too Galadriel." I said. "I'm getting married in a castle, to a man who will probably be kitted up in full armor. I don't want people to mistake the wedding photos for the ads from a Renaissance Faire."

"I couldn't possibly do anything like that in a week, anyway." pronounced Bisitra.

"Oh, this one's beautiful!" said my mother. "I like that full skirt, and the cathedral train."

"It's a little fussy looking for my taste." said Kira, looking at it in turn.

"It is beautiful." I said, tactfully, "but I don't think a ball gown is going to work."

"Why not?" asked my mother.

"Well, think about the size of the balcony we'll be standing on for the ceremony. It's not that big, and there'll be five of us. The bishop is obese, my fiancé isn't fat, but he is a very large man, especially in armor, and if I'm going to wear a skirt with that kind of volume, you and Boris won't have anywhere to stand."

"Oh—I hadn't thought of that." She frowned at the magazine.

"I couldn't make anything like that in a week, either." added Bisitra.

"What about a slip dress?" Sue suggested. "They're quite fashionable."

"NO!" I protested. "Nothing against your suggestion, but I hate slip dresses. I refuse to get married in a night-gown, even a silk one. Plus, they emphasize all the wrong parts of me."

"Okay, no slip dresses. Next!" said Kira.

"That's a shame. I could make a dozen slip dresses in a week." Bisitra shook her head.

"I think we're going at this the wrong way around." said my mother. "Bisitra, what if you go through these first and mark the ones you could do in a week or less, and then Jovia can pick the one she likes from those, rather than the other way around."

Mother's suggestion worked very well.

A couple of hours later, Bisitra was still protesting, but not very strongly. "I still wish you'd go to Paris or London, to one of the fashion houses there."

"No." I said. "I'm marrying a head of state. If I went out of the country for my wedding dress, at best it would be unpatriotic and at worst, treasonous. Besides, if I go to one of those designers at this late date, they'll just sell me something off the rack, and next month there'll be magazines showing that exact dress, with an article saying that was the dress Joviana Von Doom..."

I paused, and thought that over for a moment. I was soon going to be going through life with the name of Von Doom. Clearly I had to hang on to my sense of humor. "That Joviana Von Doom wore that same style to her wedding, and it normally retails for two thousand Euros. That's just so vulgar!"

"Better watch it, Mom," teased Kira. "Or she'll have you thrown in the dungeons!"

We laughed; the Invisible Woman stiffened up for a moment, and then joined in.

The gown selection was done—gowns, I should say, because my mother needed a proper dress for the occasion, too, and then I had been talked into getting a reception gown as well. Bisitra had special-ordered the fabric, which would be overnighted from France, as Latveria has no silk mills.

Now we were relaxing and having what would have been a tea party, if there had been any tea. We had finger sandwiches and petit fours, sent over from the café, but for a beverage, we had champagne. We weren't drunk—just relaxed. Some of us more so than others.

"Why is the ceremony being held on a balcony?" wondered Sue. "Don't castles usually have chapels?"

"It used to, before the Soviets gutted the place. Now it's the genetics lab." I said. "Anyway, it would never hold all two hundred invited guests."

"Four hundred." put in Kira. "That's what it says on Latveria-net."

"Four hundred? Did I hear wrong or did he double the guest list? Mother, you were there." I looked to her.

"It was four hundred. I remember it very clearly." she replied. "I'm afraid you must have heard wrong."

"Four hundred? I think I need to sit down."

"Don't faint." advised Bisitra. "There isn't enough room."

Sue sat forward. "I really ought to be thinking of ways to disrupt the ceremony, after what Doom did to my wedding. He got all the super-villains in the world, almost, to assault the church, one after another, at something like five minute intervals. The day started off so beautifully! Reed, Johnny, even Ben, all of them in their tuxedos—I wore a gorgeous Carolina Herrera gown—and then, wham! Mind you, I didn't join in the fighting that day. I didn't want to ruin my dress. Just that one day, I wanted to be a woman and not a superhero….So I waited at the altar, and since half the guests were other superheroes, they took care of it. Reed's tuxedo was shredded by the time we actually said our vows, so he had to say them in his Fantastic Four uniform. I was furious at the time, but it's funny now."

"It sounds as though it was memorable, however." commented my mother, and ate a miniature éclair.

"Oh, it was!" Sue took a sip of champagne, and said, with dawning surprise, "You know, I really am enjoying this. I can't remember the last time I hung out with some girl friends and just did—well, just did chick things. My life is awash with testosterone—I'm surrounded by men all the time. It's not that I don't love them, it's that I'm so outnumbered."

"That's right—even your child is a boy." my mother remembered. "But children of either gender are wonderful. I only had the one," she smiled at me. "Now she's getting married. I have these terrible dreams sometimes, dreams in which she's dead and I'm all alone. I nearly lost her, you know."

This was cutting a little too close to home. "Momma, I don't know that they'd be interested—," I began.

But Bisitra was already saying, "No, I didn't know. What happened?"

"She had leukemia as a child. When she was twelve, she nearly died of it. That's what I dream about—that she died back then, and I'm alone. I wake up crying, and then I remember she's all right. The relief is so great, I start crying all over again."

"I suppose it might be symbolic." Sue's forehead creased. "All children die, because they grow up and cease to be children. Your son or daughter is still there, but the child is gone."

Suddenly, there came an angry banging at the door. Kira got up a bit carefully, on account of the champagne, and went to the window. "It's your husband," she told Sue.

"Uh-oh." said the Invisible Woman, and stood.

"I think the party's over." My mother stood up as well, and I followed suit.

As I followed Susan Storm Richards out the door, I could see the Fantasticar sitting in the road. The Human Torch and the Thing were inside it, looking bored.

Mr. Fantastic was standing in the street. "What on earth were you doing?" he asked his wife, in a state of high annoyance. "We've been waiting for you for nearly three hours!"

"Didn't bother us any." rumbled the Thing.

"That's because you and Johnny escaped after only twenty minutes and have spent your time in the tavern putting back beers!"

"Hey, you're the designated driver." Johnny pointed out, as Reed continued talking.

"I think the only thing worse than Doom when he's trying to kill me is Doom when he's being affable! He insisted on taking me around, and didn't even show me anything interesting, like his laboratories. No, he had to take me around his art gallery and talk about it. In detail." Richards complained.

"Dr. Richards?" I asked.

"Yes—Ms. Florescu?"

"Don't you want to take me aside and tell me something?" I inquired.

"Such as?"

"Such as why I shouldn't marry him. You came all this way, after all."

He fell silent. "I—no. Please—you'll have to take my word for it. You'll regret it."

"I'm sorry, but that's not enough."

His face flushed. "Let's go!" he told his wife.

Before she got into the Fantasticar and flew off, Sue turned to me and said, "This is the first that we've ever spent any time together. I don't know if we can be friends—but I think we should try. Leaving the men in our lives out of it—except when we need to commiserate about them, that is."

"The fate of the world might depend on it." I agreed. "But what are you talking about, if we can be friends? You helped me pick out my wedding dress. We are friends."

"I guess that's right." she considered. "Bye!" She climbed in, and was gone.

"I was pleasantly surprised." My mother said. "She's really a lovely person. Such a shame she's married to him."

I had the feeling that people outside of Latveria were going to be saying things like that about me.

"Well—what now?" I asked her.

"I think I'll go on home. I'm sure the messages will have been piling up while I'm gone—everyone's going to want to know what I knew and when I knew it. And you should get back up to the castle—you have a wedding to plan." She winked at me.

"It seems to me most of the planning is already done."

"Ah, but you're the lady of the castle now. The staff is going to be looking to you for directions. There's the wedding cake, the flowers, the menu. You can call me if you get swamped—but I know you're capable of handling it yourself."

"Momma—I love you." I said.

"I know, dear one. Come here." We hugged good bye, and we parted, she to go down the hill to her home, and I to go up the hill to mine.

The castle stood above me, its gates open to welcome me in like a pair of arms. If Doom was watching from one of its windows, I could not see him. But I knew he was there, all the same.

**A/N:** Well, I can tell from the hits that there are people reading this story. I don't know who's been spreading the rumor that I hate reviews, but it isn't true.


	7. Chapter 7

My mother was right; I did wind up having a lot to say about the wedding arrangements after all. When I reentered the castle, the horticulture department, the chefs and the steward of the dining room were waiting to consult me as to what I wanted.

Since they were people who knew their jobs and did them well, it was nearly effortless on my part—just a matter of choosing from among the options available at such a late date. But various details and decisions connected to keeping the castle running were now going to be routed through me, apparently. For example, the head housekeeper expected to consult me on a daily basis for menu approval.

After that, I returned to my suite, lost in wondering what my new role was going to entail, and in turn, that led me to think about the question of whether or not I was going to promise to obey Doom—as his wife, not as his aide.

Once back in my rooms, I found that no effort at unpacking was necessary on my part. Everything had been put away in my absence, which meant that someone, possibly several someones, had examined every piece of underwear I owned, and had probably critiqued it at the same time. I was also going to have to search for most of my belongings. My laptop was on the desk in the sitting room area, however, and I sat down to think and shop for wedding shoes and such online. (I was very glad that overnight shipping was available.) I called up the internet and started browsing.

I had liked my old job, and I had been good at it. When I began, I had taken an oath to obey him, and I had said the words without hesitation. And I had obeyed, for the most part, anyway. Sometimes I had to interpret his orders…creatively. But there is a great deal of difference between the obedience of an employee and the obedience of a spouse.

I hoped my new role was not going to be limited to public relations and domestic duties. Correction: I was going to make sure my new role was not going to be limited to public relations and domestic duties. The problem was that I knew nothing of what he had in mind. I could very easily have worked myself up into an anxious mess over it, but I decided to take another approach. I decided to talk to him about it.

After all, I could always resort to manipulative tactics later, after all, and I had more interesting things to think about—such as whatever it was that Reed Richards was unwilling to reveal about Doom.

As I considered the merits of a pair of baby-blue satin pumps, I discarded the idea that it could simply be that Doom was too obsessive about his work, as Richards wouldn't have a leg to stand on in that department. I was well acquainted with that tendency of his, and I myself was prone to obsess over things.

Doom's moodiness, then? Spell Doom backwards, and you got the word mood, which said it all.

I was inclined to believe that the secret had to do with either the arts arcane, or with sex.

I lack magical powers, since I have neither mage-sight nor the most important talent of the magician, which is the ability to say phrases like, 'By the all-seeing Eye of the Vishanti, may the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak protect me!' without breaking down in an attack of the giggles.

Doom, however, has a considerable talent for magic, and anyone who can speak of himself in the third person can probably say anything without batting an eye. Despite my inability, I did like studying magical theory, and I knew that there were various rites, rituals and spells which require one to do things that would cause the more conservative college roommate some anxiety. For example, the Rite of Aholibah requires that one draw the lines of power on one's naked body in one's own blood. Had I walked in on a roommate who was performing that, I would have called 911.

Knowing what I now knew about Doom and sex, I could also imagine Reed walking in on a scene such as the one I had been participating in last night, and freaking out. Even at that age, Doom would have been bold enough, and more than good looking enough, to persuade a girl into it, and coming as he did, not only from Europe, but from a Gypsy tribe, he wouldn't necessarily have known to put a tie or other garment on the outer doorknob to warn his roomie.

I was interrupted by an e-mail from the subject of my thoughts.

'We shall have dinner this evening on the terrace by the conservatory, at eight, if it pleases you. V.'

It did please me, especially since he had extended to me the courtesy of an option, so I replied in the affirmative, and began to think about wedding-night lingerie...

I went down to dinner in a casually elegant halter dress, long and flowing in ivory silk, and I was glad I did, because when I got to the terrace, it was a place transformed.

If I had few, if any illusions about Doom, I also had few illusions about myself. Unconventionally attractive or no, at 5' 11", I was intimidatingly tall, and with my IQ, I was intimidatingly smart as well, and I would not, could not, 'dumb down' myself—pretend to be less intelligent, less well-informed—to attract any man in the world. I could not have lived with myself ifI did.

As a consequence, men fled from me as if I needed warding off with crucifixes, and romance, like sex, was something I encountered only between the covers of books, preferably Jane Austen.

Therefore, what awaited me on the terrace was unprecedented in my experience. Normally, the terrace was a bare, flat grey expanse , bordered not only with a balustrade, but with a force-field that kept flying objects from crashing into the conservatory and smashing all the glass. Tonight it had been divided in half by a screen of greenery, and a string quartet was playing behind it.

The other side, where I paused in the doorway before going over to the table, had various trees and shrubs in pots scattered around it, all with white, fragrant flowers that glowed in the growing dusk and breathed perfume into the air. Lanterns cast a soft light from their places in the branches. The table set for two shimmered with crystal, china and metal, and the man who waited for me behind it had a mask on, true, but the informal one he had put on afterwards, the night before, and instead of armor, he wore an impeccably tailored suit over his powerful frame.

He rose as I approached the table. "Good evening, my dear."

"Good evening," I replied, as I looked around. "This is so beautiful—Are you sure you asked the right woman?" I said it as if I were joking, but he saw through it.

"I don't know. Are you the woman who regards money and fame as necessary evils, rather than incentives toward being with me?"

That answered the question of whether or not I was monitored outside the castle. He knew what had been said.

"I don't think you could have come up with anything more moving to say if you took two weeks to think it out," I told him, a little unsteadily. "But yes, I am that woman." I could feel a blush heating my face yet again.

"Then won't you have a seat?" he asked.

"Thank you," I said, and added, he moved the chair for me, "I didn't mean for you to hear—or overhear—that."

"I never imagined you did." he returned, as he took his own seat.

"I can see I will have to watch what I say about you in the future." I draped my napkin in my lap.

"Why? I have no objection to hearing statements such as that." The humor was back in his voice.

"Ah, but I might be irritated with you for some reason, sometimes. Suppose you take to leaving pieces of your armor scattered around?"

"Already you begin to display such shrewish tendencies? If the invitations hadn't already been sent, I'd call off the wedding." he said, with mock offense, and waved over the servobot. No human waiter would eavesdrop on us tonight; mechanical hands would pour the wine and serve the food. It placed the appetizers before us, mountain crayfish in a lemon-ginger sauce.

"In all seriousness," Doom continued, as I tasted the pale gold wine, "I thought you handled both of the Richards, not to mention yourself, extremely well…You were wise not to attach any importance to the imputations Richards made against me. He is at best criminally negligent, at worst, a deliberate saboteur, and in either case, an egregious liar."

I was not surprised by his statement, but I considered the source of it. Regardless of how it may seem, I actually have nothing against Reed Richards personally, other than that he was a superhero. Becoming one seems to do something to the brain; hence his blind spot regarding what became of his inventions once they left his hands. By all accounts, other than Doom's, he was a fine man, a loving husband (despite his snappishness earlier that day), and a good father. He was neither a saboteur nor a liar. He might be negligent, but not much more than that.

"He has me intrigued, however. What am I going to discover about you that I haven't learned in three years'—and one night's—acquaintance?"

He stiffened up. "I would prefer that this matter be dropped. He made a false accusation. That is all."

Now that was interesting! If he had nothing to fear, he had no reason to be defensive, especially since I was being playful. There was something in it. I wondered what it was.

"By all means, my lord." I said, smoothly.

"Thank you," he said. "What do you think of this wine?"

Acquiring a palate for fine wine was one of my hardest-won achievements. It's difficult to become a wine connoisseur in a poverty-stricken town in rural Pennsylvania, and being a goody-two shoes who didn't touch alcohol until I was of legal age didn't help.

"I thought it was young and brash at first sip, but this sauce is so assertive that I think a mellower wine would be overshadowed." I paused. "So you have no objection to a friendship between Susan Richards and myself?"

"None whatsoever. She is rather a shallow creature, however. You may find you have little in common."

"I'm flexible, though. We'll find things to talk about…"

Whoever had planned the menu, the castle kitchens had sent up an exquisite meal, romantic without including anything as obvious as raw oysters, and nothing that was terribly filling. Talking to him was remarkably comfortable, for the most part. The lack of armor made a difference, not only in how I perceived him, but also, perhaps, in how he perceived himself.

The conversation flowed naturally; we talked about items he was considering in the latest rare-books catalog from Christie's of London, discussed the artist Andy Goldsworthy, who would spend hours carefully covering a rock in a stream with autumn leaves so yellow and so perfectly matched that it looked as though the rock had been painted, only to have the current sweep it away, the entire process being the work of art, or spend a hundred days or more with a stone-laying crew, creating a meandering fence of rocks through a wood that would last for a hundred years or more if left undisturbed.

We covered the nuanced sub-text in Stoppard's latest play, and somehow wound up in a hilarious discussion of Latveria's potential as a tourist destination.

"No, no. I think there is a special sort of tourist who'll be attracted simply by the fact that there's no other country in the world with high-speed internet access and without a single McDonald's anywhere within its borders, but I'm just not sure we ought to let that element into the country. They'll not only be terrible snobs; they'll be bores as well." I scraped up the last bit of crème brulee from my ramekin, and finished it.

"You do have a point." he conceded. "And I liked your idea of having all tourists who go hiking without a guide between the months of October and April sign both a waiver and an affidavit stating they will be responsible for the costs of their rescue."

"You read it, then?"

"Oh, yes."

The evening had given way to night, and the quartet had been dismissed, leaving us with the music of a thousand crickets.

I took only a small sip of my brandy; what with the champagne in the mid-afternoon and this meal with different wines for every course, I had drunk much more than I normally would. I was a little more than relaxed now. I was feeling uninhibited enough to ask a question I would have stammered and blushed my way through sober, if I said it at all.

"I'm only asking for purposes of information, but, in our intimate life, is the use of restraints going to be a constant, a variable, frequent or not, or a one time occurrence?"

"A frequent variable, I should say. As a constant, it might prove monotonous—eventually. I take it you would not be averse to some company this evening?"

I smiled at him.

It was not much later that I had on the sleep-mask and nothing else.

"May I touch you?" I asked.

"Where?" he asked. We were on my bed together.

"Everywhere. Within the boundaries, of course.", by which I meant his face. "I want to go exploring the topography—of you."

A/N: Feedback, please! If you liked it, please review. If you hated it, please review anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Warning! This chapter has naughty stuff! You have been warned!

* * *

"May I touch you?" I asked.

"Where?" he asked. We were on my bed together.

"Everywhere. Within the boundaries, of course.", by which I meant his face. "I want to go exploring the topography—of you."

"I cannot see how that could cause offense." The playfulness was there. I had already decided I wanted to encourage that aspect of him as much as possible. "Front first, or back?"

"Definitely the back. Otherwise, I'm liable to get distracted."

He chuckled. I heard him take off his robe and felt the shift of the mattress as he lay down. The bed was a much more stable and comfortable place to be doing this than that chaise.

"You may proceed." He sounded a little muffled, most probably because he was speaking half into a pillow.

I reached out, found his arm, and moved closer, kneeling to one side of him. I followed his arm with my fingers up to his shoulder, then his neck, and finally ran them through his hair, which was surprisingly soft. I caressed his head, feeling the shape of his skull through his hair, and then I bent and buried my nose in the nape of his neck. I planned to memorize him, this is how the back of his neck smells, that was how many of my hand-spans it was across his shoulders…

He smelled clean. I caught a hint of woodsy-scented soap, and the clean, almost harsh mineral smell of a shampoo I didn't recognize. "What are you doing?" he asked, amused.

"Learning you. Hush…" I moved my hands to his shoulders, and kneaded them lightly, discovering how the muscles flowed, bunched, changed, as I started at the neck and worked my way outward. He was solid, very solid, and his shoulders were broad.

"You must get a lot of exercise." I observed. "I can tell that you work out."

"Every day. A large man in armor is imposing; a fat one, ridiculous."

"And here I am, reaping the benefits." That made him laugh. I tried, but found that my hands together did not go all the way around one of his heavily muscled upper arms, slid down to the forearm, feeling the fine crop of hairs that sprang from the back of it. Again, his hair was soft, almost downy. I reached his hand and pressed my palm flat against his hand. His hand was larger than mine, the fingers longer, the palm wider. "Palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss." I quoted Romeo and Juliet.

"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?" he replied, without missing a beat.

That was one of the things I loved so much about him, I realized. There was someone in the world who could immediately identify what I quoted and come back with the next line. That was why I put up with the massive ego, the vanity, the conviction that he alone knew what was best for the entire world (which was not an exaggeration). Yet neither of us had said the word 'love', and I was not going to say it now, for, noticing that I had fallen still, he asked, "Is something wrong?".

"No," I said, and shelved those thoughts for future study. I leaned over and pressed a kiss into the palm of his hand, and turned my attention to his back. He must be quite a sight when naked, my hands were telling me. I wondered about something…

"Are you ticklish?" I asked.

"No. I would advise you not to test it, as you might not care for the repercussions." He was still using his playful voice.

"Ohh. And what would they be?" I curled my fingers, scratching his waist ever so lightly.

"I can't tell you; it would alarm you too much to go on."

"Now you have me worried…" I said.

Moving lower, I skipped his buttocks, which prompted a lazy "Hmm?" from him.

"In a bit," I said, and began again with his feet and calves. Nice even toes, trimmed nails. More soft hairs on his meaty calf muscles. I was also noticing something I had only read about: the subtle, natural scents of a clean, fresh body. Why should he smell faintly like fresh-cut grass here, or bread baking there?

There was a definite pleasure in touching him; it was quickening my blood and making my loins heavy. I was not going to need much to set me off after this…

Trailing my fingers back up his thighs, I surprised him by suddenly putting both my hands right on the cheeks of his ass. "Oooh, now this is nice." I kneaded them. "I bet I could bounce a coin right off this, it's so taut."

"What?" I could feel his laughter rumble through him.

"You heard me." I squeezed again.

"Are you quite finished?" he inquired, still amused.

"What a dilemma…I could keep to this side a while longer, but if you're feeling impatient...?"

"As it so happens, yes." I sat back on my haunches as he rolled over, and I began at the top again, feeling the hollow at the base of his neck where the collar bones began, the fine hairs that sprouted there also, the curve of his bicep, down his arm to his hand once more. I laced my fingers through his and gave a quick squeeze.

Back to his chest, then. There was plenty to explore there, fascinating planes of muscle, nipples. He had nice smooth skin, too. Ripples of hard muscle made up his abs. I fitted the ball of my thumb into his navel for a moment, skimmed down his flat belly, feeling the fine line of hairs further south…

And then I passed over the most interesting area again, so that I would not neglect his legs. I ran my fingers up the hard line of the shinbone that lay right beneath the skin. His knees, then, and up his thighs, brushing along the inner surfaces…

He really was feeling impatient! I heard his breath quicken as I touched him. If he wasn't fully erect, I couldn't tell how he could get any more so. I cupped him, slid my hand down to—where I encountered something that shifted under my fingers.

"What you are feeling," he informed me with lazy good humor, "is foreskin. Circumcision is not as universal in Europe as it is in America, and in any case, I wasn't born in a hospital. I trust you're enjoying this; I certainly am. "

"I am." I told him, and made a mental note to ask him more about where he was born, but later. I liked this blindness; like the night before, it freed me to act without embarrassment, without inhibitions. I could not see him, so I was forced to examine him by other means. But I was still curious. "May I—May I have a look? I promise I won't turn my head."

"Well—" he considered. "If you wish, I shall allow it. But see that you keep your promise."

I arranged myself so that my view of anything other than his lower half was obscured, and slipped the mask up. Of course I had seen pictures, but never in that state.

"Keeping in mind that I have no way of making a comparison, I'm very, very impressed." I also noticed that on his belly and legs, he was several shades darker of skin than I, despite the fact that his skin could not have seen the touch of the sun for years, but no doubt that was due to his gypsy mother's heritage, the Romany blood.

"Thank you," he commented, as I readjusted the mask, making sure I was as conspicuous in my movements as possible.

I leaned down over his midsection…and began tickling him.

His reaction was immediate. It seemed as if there was a sudden explosion of bedding, and then he grabbed me around the waist, pinned me down, and started tickling me back. He was tremendously strong. I writhed, kicked, and wiggled, trying to get away, or at least to shield my most ticklish spots from his onslaught, all the while shrieking with laughter. But he was inexorable, sending his fingers up and down my ribs, while I gasped for breath and pleaded for mercy.

Finally I twisted underneath him and crawled away on my knees. He grabbed me by the ankle and reeled me back in as if I weighed no more than a kitten. He crushed me against him with one arm, doubling me over. The other hand went directly between my legs.

"You teasing minx! Raising expectations, and then not fulfilling them… Do you exist in a permanent state of lubricity?"

"Almost…"I managed to say. Doom was doing some amazing things with that hand. He was working everything he needed to, as far as I was concerned.

"Well, now you're going to take what's coming to you!" The next thing I knew, he'd spread my knees apart, my head was pressed into a pillow, and he was in me.

It was only half as uncomfortable as it was the first time, which meant it was that much more fun. I supported myself on my arms as he found a hard driving rhythm. "You're…going…to….have to….take…all…of…it." He punctuated his words with his movements and he had, very gentlemanly, managed to keep his hand where it was rubbing and coaxing me along.

"I'm not—complaining!" I gasped. "I'm not sorry—either. Up a little—to the left. "

Doom listened, and commented. " Recalcitrant…wanton….This…is…a lovely view."

He was pushing me further into the mattress with every thrust. Despite the fact that doing it in this position made kissing impossible, I was enjoying it immensely. Then the divine spasms began, and I came with an overwhelming intensity. The world was suspended for a long moment, while the pleasure surged and crested. I was surprised I didn't pass out from it. In the meantime, he pounded into me feverishly as he reached his own conclusion. The sounds he made were very like a roar.

He collapsed on me, and rolled to one side, taking me with him, and held me, one arm over my waist. Afterglow is a glorious, joyous thing. I chuckled.

"What are you thinking of?" he asked.

"Two things. For one, I never imagined that sex would be half this much fun. Beyond the pleasure, I mean. I never thought I'd laugh this much."

"I never thought I'd laugh at all." he said, under his breath. "And the other?"

"I was wondering what the punishment for touching myself would be, if this is what I get for ticking you…NO! Stop!" He started tickling me again…

A short while later, after the things one must do after sex, involving tissues and a splash of water, we were back in that position. He did like touching, and being touched; of course he would, it's a human instinct, and spooning with him was very, very nice.

I thought of what he has said earlier, and asked, "Where were you born? You said it wasn't in a hospital."

"Mm? No, it was in a Romany camp, outside of Doomstadt—Haasenstadt, as it was then. Near the river." The Haasens were the family who ruled in between the Doom dynasties, although the Soviets had a turn for a while as well.

"Near the river—Of course, Cynthia's Gardens." Cynthia was Doom's mother. She was a Gypsy sorceress, and very beautiful. Her son took after her, with his father's brow and jaw line to give his face masculinity. I had seen photographs of the entire family, so I could see where he had gotten which trait.

"Yes. It is my memorial to her; I do not know for certain where she might be buried."

Cynthia's Gardens was a beautiful park, designed to delight its visitors. It was a welcoming place for children, with scaled-down mazes, bright colors, fountains to play in. At the center was a contemporary sculpture in bronze of a mother and child—not, I now knew, Mary and the Holy Child, but Cynthia and her son.

"The most important things about her still exist." I said.

"Yes," he said. "And her soul is at peace. And, at the moment—so is mine." He sounded surprised.

* * *

A/N: If you are concerned that this fic is going to degenerate into pure fluff, don't worry. The next chapter will begin some very un-fluffy action and suspense. 


	9. Chapter 9

Of course it was too good to last. He was there when I fell asleep, but I woke up alone, and this morning, there was no note on the bedside table, nor any other messages—no voice mail, no phone call, no e-mail. Nothing.

It left me feeling…used.

I added it to the growing list of things to bring up with him at some point in the near future—the question of children, what my new role was going to be, whether or not I was going to promise to obey, was love a part of this relationship, and now this…I could only see that list growing longer. I had thought about bringing up my concerns the evening before, but the dinner had been so perfect, so beautiful that I had not wanted to spoil it with a single fractious word. Only the worst bitch would have done that. The need to have it out with him remained.

However, at that moment, I was planning the wedding cake with the castle's pastry chef.

"Fruitcake." I said. "It's as traditional as you can get, but not made with glazed or candied fruit—dried fruit only. And no plum brandy, either. Let's have it be non-alcoholic."

"Very good, my lady." The man made a note. "Marzipan?"

"Yes. And fondant rather than buttercream, as it won't melt in the heat."

"Fondant…And the decorations?"

"There are such things as edible gold and silver leaf and dust, aren't there? And edible pearl powder, spun sugar, and such. Make it…Make it look as if it were made by a jeweler and that it belongs in a display case with guards on duty. I leave the exact design to you; I know that the result will be wonderful, because I know your work."

"Thank you, my lady." He sounded gratified.

Little did I know that my instructions to the pastry chef were a foreshadowing of what was to come. After he left, I went to the study window and looked out.

I could see a great deal of the castle yard from that vantage point. A man was getting out of one of the non-gas rental cars. He was accompanied by two chunks of muscle that had 'bodyguard' written all over them. Two of the castle security guards had the situation under control; apparently he was an expected visitor. The man then removed a rolling carry-on from the car. It seemed to be fairly heavy. The little group soon went out of my sight as they drew nearer the castle.

I thought little of it, lost in my own thoughts as I was. I didn't want to manipulate my way into getting the answers I wanted. I wanted to speak openly and honestly about what I thought and felt. I wanted to discuss it as two adults and two equals. I had never thought of myself as less than Doom's equal. He, on the other hand, considered no one his equal. That might prove to be a problem…

Perhaps it would be best to wait to bring up my concerns until Victor was out of his armor.

I realized suddenly that I had thought of him as Victor, rather than Doom, for the first time. After last night, it felt very natural.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. An aide told me that the Master requested and required my presence in the Russian drawing room.

The Russian drawing room was called that because of the collection of Russian enamelware that was displayed prominently there. Doom—Victor—no, Doom had several dozen examples of the finest works of the 19th century Russian goldsmiths, vases, bowls, plates of gold and silver, covered in layers of vivid translucent color. They were to cloisonné what Monet's 'Water Lilies' was to a paint-by-numbers kit.

I saw the bodyguards from the car waiting in the hall, and when I entered the drawing room, I was not surprised to find their client examining a vase with rapt fascination.

"Good morning, my dear. Thank you for joining us so promptly. This gentleman is a representative of the firm of Harry Winston…" He performed the introductions, and the three of us went next door into a conference room.

I recognized the name of Harry Winston. It was a jewelers' firm that was always lending jewelry to actresses for the Oscars and other awards shows. If I was ever going to have a red-carpet moment in my life, it would be the day I married Doom, so having the right jewelry for the occasion made sense.

The conference room had dark wood paneling on the walls and a wide table surrounded by leather chairs. More than a dozen suede jewelry cases, perhaps as many as twenty, were arranged on the tabletop.

"Please have a seat, my dear." Doom held the chair for me, and told the representative, "Two sets. There is to be a reception gown as well as a wedding gown, I understand."

"Yes. I was talked into it. I wonder if that might not be overdoing it…"

"Oh, no, it's quite the done thing." the jeweler assured us.

He began to open the cases and pass them to us. The next half hour was rather fun, actually. I thought some of the pieces were positively vulgar—there was one that reminded me of a can of fruit cocktail, and others weren't particularly bridal. Three sets in particular caught my eye, however.

One was from the 19th century, a necklace (which came with a frame so that it could be worn as a tiara, the man pointed out) which looked like a branch from a wild rose bush. There were five roses on it, the largest of them placed at the front and center, simple, five-petaled roses, thickly encrusted with old-cut, or rose-cut diamonds, set in white gold to make them look much like white roses as possible. Some of the diamonds were quite large. The branch itself, with its stems, leaves and buds, was yellow gold, and set with emeralds sprinkled everywhere, like rain-drops. There were matching earrings, made like a pair of smaller roses, to go with it, and it even looked good on me. That one was definite.

It was hard to choose between the other two. One was pearls, a very modern triple-strand choker, two strands of which were large pink pearls with smaller black-grape pearls in between, and the strand in the center was reversed—large dark pearls and small pink ones. They were bound with a platinum and diamond slide, which had three strands of pearl fringe finished with platinum and diamond tags. It, too, had earrings, and a triple strand bracelet as well.

The other was an Art Deco era set. A long, smooth teardrop of emerald hung from geometric diamond and platinum links that formed the chain, with earrings and bracelet to match.

Seeing my indecision, Doom said to me, "You can always decide on the day itself."

"Can I?" I asked. "It's hard to choose jewelry to go with a dress that doesn't exist yet."

"Certainly, my dear." He said to the jeweler's representative, "All three."

The man expresses both his and his firm's pleasure at being able to be of service, begged to be remembered in the future, whisked the rejected sets back into his carry-on, and took his leave.

"There is a safe built into the north wall of your bedroom, behind the Rosetti. The combination may be simple—it is the birth date of the person who sent in a note at the New York embassy three years ago—" by which he meant my true birth date, which only he and I knew—" but the lock is not."

I was trying the tiara frame for the rose necklace, attaching it with as much care as I could. "Thank you. I'll sleep much more comfortably if these are locked away, and more comfortable still when he comes back for them."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Doom said, amused, "I did not expect coy, false protestations on your part about how I shouldn't and you couldn't—indeed, I would have been disillusioned if you had made such puerile utterances—but your cool, blithe, academic interest—I see by the three small creases now forming between your eyebrows that the truth is dawning on you. These jewels are my gift to you. It is gratifying to know that you can be so mistaken. Your modesty reveals itself yet again."

I could feel the blood draining from my face. "These must represent a lot of money," I forced out. "More than a nice house with a big yard?"

"More than several houses with yards. Now that you know that these will be yours permanently, do you want to look again? I'm certain he would be only too happy to be called back."

I like jewelry—who doesn't? But this wasn't jewelry—this was too much money to put into something that could get lost, broken, stolen. And I had other, more heartfelt reservations about owning things that were so costly.

"No—I'm not being coy, and I'm not being false—but I can't accept these. It would be immoral."

"Immoral?" The amusement was gone, replaced by icy steel. "How so?"

"It has never seemed right to me that some people should own so much—when there are children in Malaysia making less than seventy cents an hour manufacturing sneakers."

"And what if there are? I am taking the bread from no-one's mouth by purchasing these trinkets, nor do you by accepting them. I relieve you of the charge of falseness, as I doubt you voluntarily could turn the color you are at present, but I do not care for the stance you are taking. I find it foolish."

He was angry—genuinely angry. This was the Doom the whole world knew.

I thought fast. I had forgotten the first thing—It is always all about him.

He was continuing. "You will accept them, you will wear them, and that will be the end of it."

I had to salvage the situation. My objections and refusal had injured his pride. I managed a watery smile. "Of all the things to have our first disagreement over!" I said. "Forgive me. I spoke without thinking it through first."

"That much is clear." he replied. He seemed—disproportionately angry.

Why was he so open, so playful—even tender—the night before, and so angry now?

"I will accept them. I will wear them. It's just that I find both your generosity—and my change in circumstances—a little overwhelming at times." Which was putting it very mildly. How could I reconcile conscience to accepting this gift? "Only—promise me, that if there's ever a budget shortfall, or an emergency, that you will accept them back, and sell them?"

"If it were anyone but you who implies such a circumstance were possible, I would not tolerate it. That will never happen."

He was very angry now. What was wrong with him? For that matter, what was wrong with me? I had been so good at turning his rages into more constructive channels, but that was before I had gotten so close to him.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to imply anything—I'm only thinking that I would then be the custodian of these, for the people of Latveria—as the monarchs of England are the custodians of the Crown Jewels." I was tap-dancing through a mine-field…

"Seen in such a light, I will concede it is different. Very well. But do not try me further."

I left. It felt more as if I escaped.

I had three jewel cases which were weighing me down, and I could feel a headache coming on. I went back to my suite, where I surprised about half a dozen of the younger maids. They were inspecting my rooms. When I opened the door, I heard their chatter.

"It's a very big bed."

"Well, he's a very big man."

"Oh, Sophie, can you imagine?"

They dissolved into giggles. I closed the door behind me with a click. Two of them were actually bouncing on the bed. One was playing with my laptop.

"M-my lady!" stammered one of the girls on the bed. I recognized the waitress who brought my breakfast trays.

"Yes." I said. "Please get down." I was very quiet when I said it. I never want to become a shrieking harridan, like my birth mother.

"Of- of-course." They were red-faced as they descended the little stairs. "Forgive us, please."

"Are you signed in under my name or yours?" I asked the girl who was sitting behind the desk."

"I'm—I'm sorry, my lady."

"Right." I said. I was being perfectly calm. I could hear more voices. I opened the door to the dressing room. Three girls were going through my closets.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you." I said, carefully. "but I would like some privacy. Perhaps you might come back at another time?"

They all froze in their places. One of them dropped the dress she had been holding against herself, the ivory silk from the night before.

"Please pick that up." I said. She fumbled for it, and put it away hastily.

"If you could join the others in my bedroom?" I asked.

When all of them were lined up, with their eyes cast down, flustered and embarrassed, I inquired, "Were you assigned to some duties in here today?"

"No, my lady. I'm sorry." said the waitress.

"I see. Please do not do this again." I may have said please, and my voice was soft and low, but I made it a command, not a request.

"I—we won't, my lady."

"Thank you. You may go. I am going to tell the head housekeeper about this, with the instruction that you are not to be punished or reprimanded this time. Don't let there be a next time."

"There won't be!" "Thank you, my lady!" and similar statements followed them out the door.

I locked up the jewelry. I definitely had a headache now. I did not like having servants…

I went into the bathroom to get some ibuprofen and water to wash it down. I glanced in the mirror as I filled a glass…and saw my face, but the expression on it was not mine—my reflection was smiling at me nastily, while my own face was, I knew, sad at that moment. The Joviana in the mirror smoothed her hair, while my hands were on the glass and the faucet. It wasn't me—it was an intruder, with super powers!

"So, you're the bride." she drawled, in American English. "Who'da thunk it?"

"Who are you?" I asked her.

"I'm Malice, baby. And I am going to ride your body on out of here." She lunged for me, surging out of the mirror to grab me by the throat. I felt no physical touch at all. She was intangible.

"Giddy-up." she said, as my consciousness faded under the onslaught of her psychic powers. She flowed into my mind like liquid, displacing me. My last failing thought was a hope that my headache really hurt her.

A/N: Next time, Joviana, who has no super powers, no magic, and can't take on dozens of ninjas like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, is in a lot of trouble…

Hello! (Hope FF isn't reading this) Julietsdaughter! Actually, I've been thinking about a possible pregnancy, too. The question is when...


	10. Chapter 10

Eventually, I became aware again. I could not see, or move, or feel anything; I might as well have been floating in a void, except that I could hear.

"This is interesting." said a familiar voice, male. "Her mitochondrial DNA shows that her mother-line is Celtic, when it should be Eastern European."

"Maybe it's interesting to somebody who knows what the hell you're talking about." said another man, a stranger.

I knew. 90 to 95 percent of all living persons of European blood descend from just seven different women, spread out over Europe, who lived many thousands of years ago—mother to daughters to granddaughters, thousands of times over. I was Scots-Irish on my mother's side, not Latverian, and my genes showed it. Somebody was going over my gene pattern, and reading it.

"She isn't a mutant, nor has she the adaptation gene, which causes powers to develop later in life as a reaction to some stimulus—like the cosmic storm which created the Fantastic Four. For the most part, she's thoroughly normal. Hmm. She has a good natural resistance to most cancers, with the exception of skin cancer—but that's only to be expected with a complexion that fair. Not enough melanin…She has the genes for exceptionally high intelligence—and in several different areas. Logical, intuitive, mathematical, linguistic, emotional, spatial…"

"Maybe that's why he wanted to marry her. He wants to make genius babies." That was my voice. Malice had spoken. She was still in my head. I could feel her squatting there.

The geneticist ignored her. "She's also highly sexed."

That was something else I already knew.

"Really?" said the second man.

"Proves my point." Malice said. "I still think the whole thing's a hoot."

I tried to stretch outward. I had lived in my head all my life. I knew where all the controls and switches were, so to speak. Surely I could fight off this intruder—.

"I think she's woken up." said Malice, startled. "Somewhere in the back of her mind."

"Has that ever happened before?" asked the geneticist. I was trying to place his voice. I knew it. I had spoken with him before…

"Not like this—It's really different inside her head. There are so many connections—and everything happens so fast. I can't get access to her memories. It's like when you break a thermometer, and try to pick up the mercury with your fingers." Malice answered. "That's her image, not mine."

"Could that be on account of her intelligence?"

"I guess."

The controls for my eyes had to be around here somewhere. I used them all the time. I remembered exactly how it felt to use them…

For a moment I had my eyes back. I cast a swift look around. A tall, silver-haired man was bent over a computer with a lot of print on the screen.

"Hey!" Malice protested.

"What is it?" asked the second man.

"She's fighting me."

"Well, control her!" snapped the geneticist. I recognized him now. It was Magneto.

"Why don't we just kill her and get it over with?" asked the second man.

"Because I don't know why she's important yet. I want to get some genetic material from her, as well. That particular gene complex she has for intelligence is highly unusual. I might be able to find a use for it. I also want to run some tests. Then you can dispose of her."

I didn't like the sound of that.

In the world of costumed adventuring—I avoid saying superhero and supervillain these days; that way I make no value judgments—there are opposing forces. Spiderman—the Green Goblin. Captain America—the Red Skull. For that matter, before he took up a radically different approach, Doctor Doom—the Fantastic Four. And of course, X-Men—Magneto. These are not hard and fast rules, and the conflicts rage around the globe. I would venture to say that at some time or another, Doom has been in opposition to practically everybody who is anybody in the world of the costumed adventurer.

Magneto is a mutant, of course, and a speciesist, which is basically the same thing as a racist, except that he loathes all humans who are not mutants. I met him a few weeks before I approached Doom, and offered to tell him why Professor Xavier was doing the mutant cause more harm than good. That was when he sneered at me.

He comes in second to Doom in terms of power, renown, influence, following, and intelligence. He, too has a country—Genosha, off the coast of Africa near Madagascar. Formerly run by the Genegineer, who enslaved and oppressed mutants, Genosha was granted to mutants as a homeland by the United Nations, under the rule of Magneto. After he held the whole planet hostage with its own magnetic field, that is.

The result—has not been as good as it is in Latveria. He did rebuild the country as a haven for mutants of all nationalities, true, but he's having trouble. Most of the farms, plantations, industries and businesses were owned by the humans who were forced to evacuate—they were run by mutant slave labor, and the former slaves don't want to work there any more, for which I don't blame them one bit. But the new citizens of Genosha aren't farmers, or industrial workers either, and it's just a mess. One of these days, I expect to hear that Magneto is now enslaving humans.

I never thought that the rivalry between Magneto and Doom was so intense that Magneto would go out of his way to kidnap Doom's bride, however. But then, from what he had said—that he didn't know why I was important—it might not be an act of revenge against Doom. It was time to take stock of my situation

All right. I was in a strange place, possibly Genosha, possibly another of Magneto's bases. He had an island in the Bermuda Triangle and an asteroid in permanent orbit around the earth, and for all I knew, there were others as well. He planned to kill me after he discovered something about me—what, I did not know. I was surrounded by hostiles, inside and out. I did not know how long I had been unconscious, or where I was in relation to Latveria, or, more specifically, to Doom. I did not know what Malice had done with my body while I was not at home…

I didn't know if Doom was coming to my rescue, or how long it might take him to find me if he was.

As a professional minion, I adore the Worst Case Scenario handbooks. I practically live by them. In this situation, the worst case would be that Malice had assassinated Doom…That was too horrible a thought to dwell on.

Different worst: Doom didn't know where I was, or with whom, and therefore wasn't on the way. It was best if I assumed that was the case. Time to get to work on rescuing myself.

I was in an adventure story now, and a familiar one at that. The hero, male or female, alone and surrounded by enemies, in danger of their life…The stuff of James Bond, or Indiana Jones, or The Man from Uncle, or…even from a superhero comic book.

My first problem was Malice—a jailor of an unusual kind. All right, suppose I did kick her out of my head. What then? I would still be stuck where I was, and if I weren't under control, Magneto might decide he didn't need to satisfy his curiosity that badly, and kill me immediately.

But if I could gain the upper hand, if I could trap her inside my head and regain control of my body unbeknownst to anyone, well, then…

Even if I couldn't make it work, it wasn't as if I had anything else to do.

I had no idea how to engage in psychic warfare, either. What I did know was psychological warfare.

I began by thinking loudly at her, trying to make my thoughts into missiles, loading them with all the feeling and sincerity I could, 'You useless, worthless piece of trash! You lazy bitch!' Stinging darts, sharpened daggers. I struck for her heart, if she had one.

I know what causes emotional trauma, especially when it comes from inside the skull where you're living.

She gasped. "Stop that!" she cried.

"Stop what?" asked the male stranger. He was no one I knew; just some flunky of Magneto's. perhaps.

"Not you." she said. "Her. The bride. She just called me some nasty names." She laughed. It sounded half-hearted to me.

'You're nothing but a tick, a leech! What good are you? What have you ever accomplished? I'll tell you. I can see right through you. I know what you are. Nothing. And that's all you ever will achieve. You'll end up a bag lady on the streets!'

"Don't!" she whined.

"Her again?" Magneto asked.

"Yes."

I wasn't about to let up. If she could not access my memories, the same was not true of me. Hers were leaking into mine; I could remember the time she took over the body of a girl she didn't like, went to a bar in a rough section of town, got thoroughly drunk, picked up a man—and departed once their clothes were off, leaving the girl suddenly awake and aware… and that was only one of many such episodes.

I hammered at her psyche. 'You're stupid with it, too. You have no imagination.'

"Shut up!"

'Make me! That is, if you can, you silly little slut.'

"Right!" she snapped, and I could feel her consciousness shift, and approach me.

There's a reason why I've read Proust's Recherché Le Temps Perdu five times—he has very important things to say on the subject of memory. We only live once, but through memory, we can re-live many times. My memory comes equipped with digital remastering, full sensory input, a high resolution picture, and stereo surround sound—so to speak.

I lived through fifteen very unhappy years.

The first memory I slammed her with was from seventh grade, when Steve Moffat beat me up after school for scoring a 98 on an algebra exam and ruining the curved grade.

Wham! There she was, in my head, surrounded by jeering classmates as Steve's fist met my mouth, breaking my braces, causing the wires to cut into the soft inside of my cheek. As my mouth filled with blood, he hauled off and blacked my eye.

Another memory, a subtler form of torture. Fifth grade, and the guidance counselor says, "Well, can't you try to be like everybody else?" Even at age ten, I know that is not possible. I am too smart and too strange.

Then I am fifteen, and my beloved grandmother is dying. My mother has forbidden me to visit the hospital, because she says my grandmother ruined our mother-daughter relationship. I cut school several times to go to the hospital, and the fear, anxiety and guilt are so strong I wind up with what the doctor calls 'a pre-ulcerous condition'. I am not allowed to go to her funeral.

Malice feels now what I felt then, not spread out over the years as I lived them, but all at once. She wails, but not out loud. I have control over my voice again.

More memories. I am attending school in my mother's cast-offs, jeans which are four inches too short for me in the legs, and three sizes too big for me in the waist. The other girls point and snigger at me, but I have nothing else to wear.

More. It is the summer I am thirteen, and my mother's husband, my stepfather, has taken his daughter and his money and left us. My mother tells me it is my fault. I must take over the cooking now, and I'm not good at it. My dinners turn out lumpy and burned. She screams at me when the food is bad. It gets worse. One night, after an attack of indigestion, she calls the police and tells them I am trying to poison her. They take me into protective custody, and for three blessed weeks I am in foster care. However, since she never hit me, and I am not visibly being abused or neglected, I am soon sent back.

My mother, again. The night before an important AP history exam, she bursts into my room at 2 AM, waking me out of a sound sleep, screaming about how there is no clean clothing in the house, and insisting that I must get up and do the laundry.

And the final straw, the incident which caused me to take out the restraining order…But I didn't have to rip off that scab, because Malice broke, fleeing into the recesses of my mind.

I let her go for the moment. I was back in control. I reclaimed myself, blinked, and asked, "Instead of killing her—why not sell her back to Doom? He'd pay a ransom, wouldn't he?" I was trying to avert bloodshed—my own, and other people's.

"No doubt." replied Magneto. "The stakes are higher than that, however. Is she still giving you trouble?"

"No, she's just making noise. What is at stake, exactly? If it was just revenge against Doom, you'd have killed her and dumped her body by now." I asked, as nonchalantly as I could.

"That's none of your concern."

"Okay. Fine. Look, I'm bored. Do you know how long this is going to take?"

"No."

"Is there any chance Doom could find us here?"

"No. Once I removed and destroyed the transmitter implant from her mastoid bone, before we even left Romania, I eliminated that possibility."

That was important information. I just love expository dialog.

"There nothing to do in here." I complained.

Magneto waved a hand. "Go take a walk around the island. Go swimming. Do whatever you please, only don't go too far. I may want to start doing some tests—or to question her."

That answered the question of where I was. Unless he had more than one island, I was in the Bermuda Triangle. "Fine," I shrugged, and left.

Brilliant sunlight stabbed my eyes. I stuck my head back in the room, as much to escape the sun and give my eyes a chance to adjust, as to ask, "Look, where's the bathroom, again?"

"Down the street to the right, in the second building." replied the self-styled Master of Magnetism.

"Appreciate it." I said. What I wanted was privacy. I had an informant to question.

The original builders of the city on that island must have been Atlantisean—or perhaps even an older race. The architecture was different—real different, as if not everyone who used it was a biped who stood upright, and in terms of decoration and shape—it reminded me of Antonio Gaudi, if Gaudi had been in the habit of using hallucinogens or if he had an attack of delirium tremens while at the beach. There were a lot of octopi depicted in the statuary. It was a trip…

Most of the island seemed to have been made of some stone to which barnacles and corals could not attach; parts of it were thickly encrusted with the evidence of marine creatures at work, I noted, as I found the bathroom. This, at least, was not only designed for humans, but looked as though it had been installed within the last five years. Looking at myself in the mirror, I surveyed my face. I was wearing a wary expression, which was exactly how I felt. All of my movements were reflected in the glass, and nothing but my movements. Malice was not in evidence.

Or was she? I leaned closer. There was a ribbon choker around my neck, a red one, with a red jewel. I owned nothing like that. I could see a tiny image of me reflected in the fake gem…a face that looked both frightened and horrified. There was Malice!

I raised a hand to it—it wasn't smooth and hard, like glass, stone, or even plastic. It was firm but slightly soft, squishy. Like an organ. Was that all the physical existence Malice had? No, she didn't even have that, for when I tried to slip a finger under the ribbon, I couldn't—it was part of my own flesh. This was just disgusting!

I poked at her, mentally. 'Hey, you.'

Nothing.

'I know you can hear me. I can feel you scrabbling around in there, like a rat in the walls.'

Nothing.

'Look, I have worse memories than the ones you've already experienced. When I was twelve, an older boy felt me up behind a shed in the park. I was afraid he was going to rape me. You want to find yourself reliving that twenty minutes over and over again?'

She responded to that. 'What, just a little groping? I've done worse than that!'

'That doesn't matter. You'd be living it just like it was happening to you for the first time, only with my emotions attached--and I was very, very frightened. What about my death? You want to live through my death?'

'Your death!' she asked.

'Why do you think Doom trusts me? I proved my loyalty. He got my heart and lungs restarted, but I was gone for several minutes…You want to find out what pain it is to drown in icy water?'

Silence. Then, 'What do you want?'

'To talk. First, is this that island Magneto raised up from the ocean in the Bermuda triangle?'

'Yes.'

'How long has it been since you shanghaied me?'

'About seventeen hours.'

That was long enough that I'd be missed by now.

'Did you do anything to him? Did you do something to Doom, when he thought you were me?' He might have been out of armor—and something hit me.

'No! I avoided him. I don't know how to speak Latverian—and I might not have been able to fake being you.'

I was relieved to hear that, but the insight I had just had was into myself, and I didn't like it. I had been horrible that morning. Victor had gone out of his way to put together a truly wonderful evening, he had been more open with me than ever before, and the very next morning, he had wanted to give me a present, not imposing his taste on me, but making sure it would be something I liked and thought beautiful.

He had done everything he could to make me feel valued and appreciated, and I had felt slighted in the morning. Instead of talking to him about it, I had behaved as ungraciously as I could about the jewelry without actually slapping him in the face. My principles might be important, true, but so were his feelings.

Ow. Ow. Ow. How was I going to make it up to him?

This was not the time to be thinking about it. Right now I had to make sure I had the opportunity to make it up to him.

'What did you do to get me here?'

'I got your purse and went down to the garages. I said you were going to go shopping in Bucharest.'

Bucharest was over the border in Romania. A lot of Latverians did go shopping there. With the wedding so close, nobody would have questioned why I was going there.

'And then?'

'You were assigned a driver and two bodyguards. Once I met up with Magneto, they were…disposed of.' she replied.

'You mean killed. Don't mince words.'

'Yes.'

'Did you kill any of them? Did they die thinking I betrayed and murdered them?'

A long pause. '…Yes.'

'All right. That's it!'

I pulled up the memory of my death, and smothered her in it.

TBC….

* * *

**A/N:** Well, in the absence of an answer from ff, I'm going to sneak some shout-outs/answers in here and there...

Chantrea Savann: Malice is a minor villainess who used to work for Mister Sinister, created by Chris Claremont sometime in the late eighties/early nineties. She hasn't been heard of for a while. Asshe seemed to have the right powers for infiltrating Latveria, I used her, and as you can tell, Joviana refuses to be a victim!

Julietsdaughter: Well, I was wondering whether to make it a neat andtidy planned pregnancy a year after they're married, or an 'oops!' that happens sooner than planned. Joviana's life has been so turned upside down, that it's...concievable...(please don't hit me, I had to make that pun!) that she hasn't been remembering to take her Pills...

What do my readers think?


	11. Chapter 11

My death was not an easy one. I was being lowered down the old courtyard well, feet first, strapped into a basket used for transporting the injured by helicopter. It was November. I was already shivering, and the bottom of the basket wasn't even touching the water yet.

In my left hand were two coins, to pay the ferryman's fee across the river into the netherworld. I had insisted on surgical tape to bind them to me, despite the fact that neither the coins nor I would be making the journey physically. If I knew I dropped them, once I was in the next world, I wouldn't have them. In my right hand, secured by more tape, was what remained of the real Rohnert Talisman.

I only had enough money for a one-way ticket. If I were coming back, it was going to have to be by another route…

Above me, the winch wound down another ten centimeters, and I finally heard the rime of ice over the water crackle as the metal basket frame touched it. I looked up, for a last glimpse of the sky I might never see again.

I wanted to shout for Boris to winch me up again. The chances were that Doom would get out of Hades without my help, one way or another, eventually. I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to die. This was an insane idea.

Sometimes I'm too smart for my own good.

There were other ways I could have committed suicide, of course, and almost all of them would have been less painful—but there was none I had a better chance of surviving without brain damage. I hoped.

The ice suddenly shattered, and my shoes began to fill up with icy water. It was a doorway back to childhood: I remembered playing in the slush and snowmelt, in the street in front of my grandmother's house. Sooner or later, the cold would seep into my boots. I could almost taste snow, smell the coal furnace, hear my grandmother calling me…

Then the winch spun out another ten centimeters, and the water was up to my calves, the splinters of ice bobbing and scraping my shins. Suddenly it was acutely painful. I ached with the cold. I could feel every separate bone. It felt as I imagined being old would be like, when everything hurt and nothing worked.

Another ten centimeters. And another. The water was up to my knees. My shivering became shuddering.

I had left notes, one for my mother—Galina Florescu, that is, and one for—whoever else. They said the same thing. 'I did my best. I'm sorry. Joviana'.

It hurt.

I didn't start crying until it reached my waist. I would have shouted up to Boris, but I couldn't. My teeth were chattering so hard I thought they might chip, and the shuddering was more like being wracked by convulsions.

Tori Amos lyrics ran through my head again: 'This is not this is not this is not really happening/ You bet your life it is, you bet your life it is, Honey, you bet your life—'

I was so cold. Perhaps my feet had gone numb by now, but the water was up to my chest. I was going to die. I was going to die. This was so stupid. I was so stupid. This could never work, never mind all my theories about the internal mechanisms of the universe in which we lived. I was going to end…

The waters were up to my neck, my chin, my mouth, over my nose and now…

The waters closed over my head.

The cold was as sharp as swords flensing the flesh from my bones. My chest was going to burst with the pressure of holding my breath in, my heart and my head were both pounding, and I was so, so, cold…

I could control it no more. I breathed out—and then I breathed in.

I breathed in my death, and breathed out my life.

I stopped it there. I had promised Malice my death, not my brief afterlife, nor my resuscitation, waking in the castle infirmary with the Knighthood of the Order of the Dragon around my neck.

I let her recover from that for a little while, and while she did, I put the bathroom to use.

It was vile. It also looked like a shoddy do-it-yourself job, which made sense, because it must be difficult for someone like Magneto, with his reputation and his attitude toward humans, to find a plumber willing to travel to the Bermuda Triangle to install a bathroom in a building on an island that looked like a bad nightmare.

I wondered if it was the only one on the island. While I did that, I checked out the cabinet under the sink. There were some potentially useful chemicals under there. Nothing exotic—just common household cleansers and such for the bathroom—but when used incorrectly, they could be dangerous.

'How many mutants—no, how many people are there on this island, besides you and me?'

'Do you love him that much, that you did that for him?' she asked.

'Not then, I didn't. I needed him, though. And I liked him.'

'You actually like him?' This seemed incomprehensible to her.

'Let's move on. I don't like you and I'm not going to confide in you. How many?'

'Four,'

'One of those is Magneto. Who are the other three?'

'The Toad, Sabertooth, and Mastermind.' she replied.

I knew of all three. The Toad was an acrobat, with (predictably) a long, retractable tongue. He also spat toxic phlegm. He could cling to walls, and his agility and endurance were greater than human.

Sabertooth was more beast than human, maned like a lion, with fangs and claws. He had heightened senses, was an excellent tracker, and had the ability to heal very quickly. He was also phenomenally strong and swift. However, he was as stupid as a log

Mastermind was a gaunt, seedy man, one of the few players in the adventurer game who never wore a costume. He usually went around in a threadbare raincoat that made him look like the caricature of a stalker, or else a flasher. His powers were mental; he projected incredibly realistic illusions that extended to all senses. I wouldn't be able to trust the evidence of my eyes, or any other sense when I faced him.

Because I would have to face him. I would have to face all three. It was inevitable. Never mind how I knew; I knew, and that was all. After I defeated or at least incapacitated them, I would have to take on Magneto.

I wasn't looking forward to this at all.

'Where is the nearest computer with an internet hookup? Other than Magneto's, that is.'

As she directed me out of the bathroom and to a nearby building, I looked around the strange city that, like I myself, had been brought back after having been drowned. Something was very unnatural about it, and as I climbed a flight of stairs, I realized what. There was nothing living on it—no plant or animal life. Perhaps there was life in the sea, but here, there was not even a sea bird in the sky, not lichen or a blade of grass. It was sterile.

Ten minutes later, I was in the Toad's bedroom, the less said about which, the better. I wondered if he kept plates of rotting food around to try and attract flies...

More importantly, he had a computer. Sending a message directly to Victor from a foreign computer was tricky. I first had to connect to Latveria-net, which was easy, and then find a link that was concealed in the wallpaper design, follow it, and enter the proper pass code, which changed according to the phases of the moon and required higher math to solve. A simple password was out of the question, as it would not be secure enough.

But it connected me to the computers built into the armor itself, and I composed and sent a message explaining everything, adding that I was currently unharmed.

Less than two minutes later, I had an answer: 'I am on the way. It will take at least three hours at top speeds. Stay alive. Doom commands it.'

I was willing to concede that perhaps the third person was appropriate for this situation.

I wrote, 'I will do my best to obey that command.' I considered, and then added, 'I love you.'

As I sent it, the door to the Toad's bedroom opened.

"What are you doing in my room—and on my computer?"

* * *

TBC…. 

A/N: Yes, **Amokitty**, I do count jewelry design as one of my hobbies. I make beaded jewelty, with semi-precious stones, silver, and crystal rather than gold,diamonds and platinum. I never heard of that site before--I'll check it out. More about how Victor feels, and why, will be revealed as the tale unfolds, but you get a good glimpse in this chapter.

**Julietsdaughter:** I'll see how it works out--I have to get them both to the wedding first! Plus I have to figure out what Doom's going to wear for the occasion... Thanks!

**Chantrea Savann:** Doom is on his way. Expect surprises...


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry, Chantrea! Joviana just doesn't find Toad attractive--but I can see your point, when he's played by the amazing Ray Park. Hades started out as a god, but it became another name for Hell.

* * *

"What are you doing in my room—and on my computer?" asked the Toad.

While I avoid the labels of 'superhero' and 'supervillain', it has not escaped my notice that most of the 'heroes' tend to be well-built and good-looking, the exceptions being those who are homely but nice, like Ben Grimm. The 'villains', on the other hand, tend to be more varied in build and facial configuration, but they usually range from unappealing to hideous, taking in a number of deformities along the way. Victor, of course, occupies a category all his own.

(Women who go into the costumed adventurer business, on the other hand, almost always have breasts as large as their heads, which may explain my feelings of inadequacy in that department. It doesn't seem to matter where they stand in terms of good and evil. They also usually have skin like silk and hair that never goes frizzy, limp, or stringy. Some day I may ask Sue why this is.)

It is a terrible wrong to assume that goodness goes hand in hand with attractiveness, and immorality with the lack of physical beauty. It is superficial prejudice; it is wrong-headed and indefensible—and all the more so when people apply it to themselves.

That having been said, the Toad was not an attractive individual. He reminded me of nothing so much as a lump of earwax, and he was looking at me in a way I did not like…

"Checking my e-mail" I said, casually and naturally, while I closed Latveria-net.

He crossed the room to lean over my shoulder. Unfortunately, I was sitting on the bed, as it was the only place to sit other than the floor. But, so far, so good—he seemed to accept me as if Malice was the one in control.

"Uh-huh." He looked at the computer screen. "I thought you might have come by to give me a taste of what Doomsie's been getting before it's wasted."

My first thought was, 'Doomsie?' The Toad's proximity made my skin crawl, so I gave him a mocking smile, and said, "I don't think so."

"That's funny, because you never said no before—so you're not Malice!"

He didn't actually finish the sentence, for I was anticipating that, so I flipped the bedspread over his head and bashed his head in with his own laptop. It was extra heavy because of an anti-degaussing shield, which was needed to protect it from Magneto's powers. I threw the computer at his head and ran for the bathroom I had visited earlier. Noises behind me told me I had not knocked him out.

I prodded Malice mentally as I ran. 'How could you afflict yourself with that?'

'I might ask you the same question about Doom!' she retorted.

I was glad she couldn't access my memories, and I certainly wasn't going to probe hers on the topic of the Toad…

I could not know how close the pursuit might be. When I reached the bathroom, I slammed and locked the door behind me. It was also part of the shoddy do-it-yourself installation, as wood would not have survived the centuries of submersion. Intended more for privacy than for security, it was flimsily made, hollow and light. It was not much stronger than cardboard. It would splinter at the first hard blow.

I reached under the sink for the cleaners I saw earlier. Wrenching the tops off two of the bottles, I tucked one under my arm while I poured the contents of the other into a plastic bucket, my hands shaking. My eyes began to sting from the fumes.

I heard an animalistic roar. The door exploded in at me in a shower of wood fragments as something like a locomotive hit it. Sabertooth shook his straggly, straw-like mane as he bared his fangs at me in a terrible grin. "Hiya—."

I flung the bucket of pine-tar based concentrated cleaning solution in his face. The label says that you should not let it come into contact with the skin or the eyes, and if by chance it does, to flush well with plenty of clean water.

He let out a yowl like a house cat with a stepped-on tail, and began to claw at his eyes. I stepped back, and whipped the other bottle out from under my arm, aimed it at him—and squeezed. A stream of clog-dissolving gel splattered over his forehead and cheeks, and it was the thick, goopy kind that clings. Incredibly corrosive…

His yowls turned to screams, and he collapsed on to the floor. I shoved more bottles into the now-empty bucket, and leapt over him, out the door. I ran, clinging to the bucket as to my life, not knowing where I was going, knowing only that I had to get away.

Had Sabertooth been anyone else, I might have felt remorse. But he was a stone-cold killer, and he would heal completely, and fast. How fast I did not know; I hoped it would take longer than three hours, but even after he could see again, he wouldn't be able to smell anything but Pine-sol.

* * *

A/N: A mini-chapter. More soon. 


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Since it would otherwise be three chapters until Victor comes to the rescue, this chapter will pick up after the defeat of Magneto and crew, and then proceed to tell the intervening incidents in flashback, as Joviana explains everything to Victor.

Also, I'm afraid you won't care for this chapter very much, Chantrea. Joviana kicks Toad's butt. (Sorry!)

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Victor and I stood side by side, and together we watched the defeated mutants leave the island for good. It was now Latverian territory; part of the price Magneto paid for his actions.

None of the four looked happy. Magneto was moving various personal belongings to his vehicle, and his face looked like a bad thunderstorm was approaching. The other members of his band were coming out of what had been their main base on the island.

Sabertooth had to be led aboard Magneto's craft, as he was still half-blind. The caustic gel had been formulated not to rinse away easily, and for a while, it burned faster than he could heal. He made a pitiful bubbling sound when he breathed; the gel had worked its way into his sinuses and other soft tissues of his face.

The Toad, who was leading him, had one arm in a makeshift sling, and he was moving like a man who had bruised his coccyx bone badly, mainly because he had.

Mastermind brought up the rear of the little parade, and he was limping. As we watched, he was wracked by a horrible cough, and hawked up a wad of spittle threaded with blood, which he spat on the ground.

"Tell me, my dear, what precisely did you do to them?" Victor inquired.

"It's a long story…"

"But one, I am sure, that will prove full of interest." He looked at me.

"They were expecting a helpless screamer, a victim," I began.

I told him about the Toad and how he had spotted that Malice was no longer in control of me. ("'Doomsie?'" Victor questioned, with disgust and loathing.) I told him all about the blanket, the laptop, and then about the chemical warfare I had waged in the bathroom.

His reaction to that was, "Brilliant! More than worthy of the name of Doom!"

"Thank you." I replied, knowing that he thought that was the highest compliment he could possibly bestow. I then proceeded to tell him what happened next….

I had stopped running once I reached a beach, where I found the first signs of life other than human; piles of seaweed drying in the sun, a very dead fish rotting on the sand, and a tide pool with a little starfish meandering its way around the rocks. I halted there and took a moment to breathe—and to think.

I was overdressed and overheated. A summer day in Latveria is much cooler than a summer day in the Bermuda triangle. My knee length linen skirt was fine, as was the sleeveless knit top, but the long-sleeved blouse of fine, thin, light cotton that I wore over it had to go.

I set down my invaluable bucket with the cleaners in it, took off the blouse, and regarded it for a moment. Then I ripped off the sleeves and tied knots in the wrists. Hunting around on the beach, I found a couple of egg-sized stones, worn smooth by the actions of the sand and water. I slipped one in each dismembered sleeve and knotted the shoulder ends as well. I needed weapons, and they could not have anything metal about them, or Magneto would control them, not I. What I had now was a pair of coshes. If I held one end and swung the cosh, I could do some real damage to whatever I hit, like one of those medieval maces, with an iron ball on one end of a chain, fixed to a strong wood handle on the other. I could probably get in a good blow or two with each before the fabric tore.

Thinking of Magneto and how everything metal was subject to his powers, I then took off both my watch and my engagement ring. I had a mental image of the wristband slowly tightening until it severed my hand…. I tied both items up in pieces of my blouse, separately so as not to scratch the emerald, and put them in my skirt pocket.

I caught sight of myself in the tide pool. My face was as pale as always—and my neck was bare. Malice's choker was gone. I searched the recesses of my mind, and found no trace of her. She had jumped ship, so to speak, and I hadn't noticed until that moment. Had she jumped to Sabertooth, or taken up residence in the bathroom mirror while I was otherwise occupied? Not that it mattered; she was gone, and that was unfortunate. Not that I missed her, but she had been my only source of information about the island.

I picked up the bucket and looked around. Victor had said he was on his way, and I believed in him without question, but there was over two and a half hours until he could reach me. I needed to get out of the sun. Normally I would have put on a wide brimmed hat and sun block with a high SPF before going out on a day like this, on an island like this. Without them, I would burn within 30 minutes, and blister within an hour. Sun stroke and sun poisoning weren't out of the question, either.

Near me, there was a sea wall with stairs leading up to an enormous building, which, once I was inside it, looked as though it had been a temple or a ceremonial hall. It didn't look as if Magneto and his followers used it, or had ever explored it—the floor was thick with sand, silt, and fish skeletons. The tall fluted pillars that supported the dome were inlaid with opalescent shells and glass, in a design at once nightmarish and transcendentally beautiful. Louis Comfort Tiffany would have wept and gnashed his teeth to see that structure.

It was not, however, a good place to hide—too open, too exposed. I had left footprints in the dirt on the floor. It made little sense to disable my enemies' best tracker and then leave such obvious signs of where I was, so I moved on.

I went from building to building, exploring even as I sought a place to wait, a place I where I could best defend myself. It was largely unused; Magneto hadn't done much beyond establishing a base there. It was a terrible shame, for it deserved a team of archaeologists, to investigate and study the historical and artistic aspects of it.

But Magneto owned it, and he would never permit a team of mere humans on it, and as for a team of mutant archaeologists—there weren't any.

There were mutants who could touch an object, and 'read' its history, its origin, its purpose—but no mutant archaeologists. There were mutant telepaths, who could plumb the depths of the human mind and heart—but no mutant doctors who could read the mind of a baby patient, one who couldn't speak yet, and find out just where it was hurting.

Among the innumerable ills the affliction of super heroism has visited upon the Earth, one of the cruelest is what it has done to mutantkind. Mutants are born with powers and abilities with tremendous potential, with possible applications of great benefit—yet, one by one, their best and brightest are seduced into becoming costumed adventurers.

Magneto and Xavier weren't opposite sides of a coin—they were on the same side. Both took young mutants and turned them into warriors. All of their recruits, whether their powers and personalities were suited to it or not, were beaten into swords. All of them—the plowshares, the scalpels, the needles, the pens, all of them. It was a tragic waste.

Mutants will never live in peace with humanity while their leaders believe their best purpose is to become living weapons of war.

While I pondered that conundrum, I located a building that served as the base's storeroom. Food was stockpiled there, as well as other things—like bottled water, for instance. I had been wandering for the better part of an hour, through dusty and grimy buildings, and it was a hot day. I was dry.

I gratefully freed a half-liter bottle from its case and poured it down my throat. As I drank, I suddenly had that prickly feeling of being watched.

If this had been a movie, the creepy music would have begun at that moment—preferably composed by Bernard Hermann, the musician responsible for the Psycho score, and the Twilight Zone theme. While I lowered the bottle and looked around cautiously, it would have built and swelled.

Who was watching me? I remembered the Toad's powers, and glanced up at the ceiling. Nothing. The room hadn't turned into a Dali landscape come to life, so it probably wasn't Mastermind. It was possible that Sabertooth had recovered from my attack to the point where he was after me again, but I doubted it. One go-round per opponent was the unspoken rule of the genre…I was betting it was the Toad.

If he was there, he was hiding very, very well.

I had put down both the bucket and the coshes in order to get my drink of water. The bucket wouldn't be of much use under these circumstances, but I retrieved one of the sleeves with its rock, cautiously.

I could hear a faint noise coming from somewhere close by, to my right. There was a shelving unit with crates full of dehydrated instant dinners, and the noise seemed to be coming from behind it. I inched my way over there, picking my way around a wobbly pyramid of olive oil bottles, sliding in beside a waist-high cracker barrel.

The sound I heard was a faint scratching. It was coming from the height of the second shelf. I carefully peered between two cases, and saw—a mouse.

He had chewed a hole in the side of packet, and was nibbling on a bit of dried carrot.

Everybody knows that when the heroine is in danger, when the music and the tension build and swell up to a screaming pitch, and then it turns out to be something harmless, she relaxes, and the audience relaxes with her. Then the real threat immediately jumps her from behind…

I wrenched the lid off the cracker barrel as I whirled, bringing it up in front of my face like a shield, just in time to deflect the wad of resinous phlegm the Toad spat at me, while I brought the cosh up and around—only to have the knot give, and the stone go flying.

It did hit him in the chest as he did a back-flip away from me, however.

"That hurt." he commented.

I backed up the way I came, keeping the barrel lid as my shield. He followed with a step and a slide, almost a dance step, showing off.

"I'll make a deal with you." I tried.

"Yes—?" he asked.

"I don't want to get into a fight with you. I'm not a martial artist."

"I can tell that." He waggled his eyebrows at me.

"If you pretend that you didn't find me, that you can't find me, then when Doom arrives, I'll tell him you should be spared."

---

"What happened then?" Victor asked.

"He laughed, and said 'Let me think.' Then he did this cute little leap, clung to the ceiling for a moment, and told me, 'No deal.' Then he flipped down, somersaulting toward me in the air."

"How did you respond?"

"I pushed over the olive oil bottles. Most of them shattered, and flooded the floor. He was already on his way down, and he couldn't react in time. After that it was like a slapstick comedy routine. He landed on his feet, skidded, and went down. His legs flew up in the air, like a V…"

Victor thought that was very funny. Once he stopped laughing, he said, "As long as your head is on your shoulders, you will never be unarmed and you will never be helpless."

"Thank you! He cursed at me for several minutes. Not only did he land on his tail-bone, but he broke his arm as well. I tied him to the shelving unit with those plastic slip-ties that you use to bundle electrical cords out of the way. I used about five on each limb. Not that he was putting up much of a fight by that time; all I had to do was touch the broken arm, and he was as accommodating as anything."

"That was most ingenious of you."

"Thank you." I replied.

"Come now; tell me how you proved that 'Mastermind' was an empty title."

"I was more concerned about him than about any of the others, barring Magneto himself…"

TBC…..

Hi, Chantrea! Can you forgive me? Pine-sol is a brand name for the first type of cleaner Joviana threw in Sabertooth's face. It has a very strong smell. I imagine that Malicewas involved with him in whatever body she was wearing at the time. I think the real problem with superheroinesis that most comic books are written and drawn by and for men. We need to start a revolution! There will be more romance, never fear!

Hello, Julietsdaughter! Does Victor like or love Joviana? Ooooh! What a good question! And I shall reveal the answer slowly over the course of several chapters.


	14. Chapter 14

"The mistake Malice, Sabertooth, and the Toad made was in fighting with their powers, when they should have been fighting with their brains." I explained to Victor.

"You, of course, had them out-gunned in that respect." he commented.

"Apparently I did…"

---------------

In The Raiders of the Lost Ark, the biggest laugh—the best moment—is when the enormous guy with the sword comes forward to fight Indiana Jones in the marketplace. He goes through an elaborate display of his skills, slashing the blade through the air, tossing it around, doing everything but balancing it on his nose.

What does Jones do? Simply pulls out his gun and shoots him. In the contest of phenomenal skills and flash versus brains and tools, it's the brains that win.

That was what I had done to the others. Mastermind was a different story—or so I thought.

His powers were mental, and more than that, I knew he had undermined Jean Grey's sanity and stability, until she went mad and became the Dark Phoenix, eventually dying—again—temporarily. I don't know Jean Grey, so I don't know how difficult that might have been. It had taken great subtlety and ingenuity on his part. Mastermind was not an idiot. I was worried.

On the other hand, he had a very limited length of time to work on me—less than two hours—about an hour and a half, in fact. His illusions would have to be simpler, but no less dangerous. If he created the illusion of solid ground where there was none, I could find myself walking off a cliff and plummeting to my death on the rocks below.

My best strategy would be to find somewhere to hole up, as safe a place as I could find, and then make it even safer. That was where my bucket and the common household cleansers would come in very handy. And then I would just wait…

I had selected a few of the more useful items from the storeroom before I left the Toad there—more bottled water, some emergency flares, and a box of sports bars, among them. The island was a big place, and it would help if I could signal exactly where I was to Victor. I bundled everything up, and set off for a place I had discovered during my previous explorations.

It was a palatial building that had four towers at the corners of its high boundary walls. Once they had been connected by walkways that ran along the top of the wall, but now all but one wall had collapsed or been destroyed. Of the two towers that were still connected—and they were lovely things, like fairy-tale minarets—only one had a passable staircase inside. The other was blocked. That was the tower I had chosen to wait it out in, but to reach it, I had to go up by way of the other tower, and cross the walkway.

I entered the first of the towers, the one with the useable stairs. Some peculiarity of construction had caused it to be built without windows—one entered, and then climbed a spiral staircase up to the open cupola, from which one could see in all directions.

The first thing I did was to open up one of the two bottles of cleaner I had left in the bucket, and scatter the contents on the floor around the foot of the stairs. What was in it looked like nothing so much as gravel, but it wasn't. It was another form of clog-remover—evidently the plumbing clogged up frequently, but if Sabertooth used that bathroom, it was probably due to that mane of his. I was spreading crystalline lye around.

As long as it stayed dry, and I didn't get any in a cut, or in my eyes, nose, or mouth, it was harmless. Even if it were wet with water, it wouldn't be too dangerous. Shoes would protect anyone from the worst of it.

I climbed the stairs, and stopped at the top, where I uncapped the other bottle of cleanser. I lowered it down the shaft on a length of twine from the stockroom slowly and deliberately, until it was only a few meters from the floor. Then I let go. It dropped the rest of the way, landing messily. I could hear the splash as the blue fluid went everywhere, and a very faint hiss as it wet the lye crystals.

It was ammonia. Ammonia plus lye yields chloramine gas. Chloramine is deadly. It is also lighter than air, so I hastily spread one of my other very useful items over the stairs' opening in the cupola floor—a felted blanket, the cheap fiber kind that are given out free to homeless people in cold weather, in larger American cities. I weighted it down with a few rocks.

I had just created a gas chamber. Anyone who wanted to get to me would have to climb those stairs into a pocket of poisonous vapors—unless they could fly. Victor had propulsion units built into the armor; no difficulty there. But Magneto could fly, after a fashion, riding the magnetic waves over the earth. One can't have everything; Mastermind couldn't, and that was the important thing.

I crossed the walkway to the other tower, where I made myself at home, with my sports bars and water, wishing that I had a book.

The next hour of my life was extremely dull.

I had memories to keep me engaged, however.

Like those of my brief sojourn in the lands beyond life, for example, which I was still trying to make sense of. The problem with remembering what happened after I died in the courtyard well was that my brain didn't make the trip along with me, and it is in the brain where memories are recorded and stored.

It was my untrammeled spirit that went and came back, and whatever memories I brought along with me were engraved upon my soul. They were hard to get at, and harder still to interpret properly. Either the afterworld is psychotropic, and adapts to what one expects to find after life is over, or else my subconscious was trying to fill in the gaps, because—what I remembered seemed to be drawn from movies I had seen. I was fairly sure that the trip over the river, with the skeletal Charon acting as the ferryman, was straight out of Clash of the Titans, although I would have to see it again to make sure.

Once I was across, my soul had to be assessed, to determine whether I was bound for heaven or hell. This proved to be trickier than I thought, because it turned out that committing suicide, as I had, didn't automatically damn me. My soul was in an almost perfect balance, and the angel who represented Heaven urged me to repent or to pray, and tip the balance in the more positive direction. (He looked like Alan Rickman as the Metatron from Dogma, another reason why I distrusted my recollections of the whole episode.)

I needed to go to Hades, however, because that was where Victor was held prisoner by Mephisto, so I said I repented nothing and I would pray to no one. The angel said that he was sorry, but as I was led off to Hell, I saw him wink at me. I remember being led through a forest by creatures I knew were demons, although I remember nothing about then. The trees were twisted and blighted, the sky an ominous green, and the ground dry, crumbly, and sandy.

Again, this resembled something I knew—the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. As I walked through that threatening wood, with my indistinct escort, I heard sounds, plaintive protests issuing from the trees. Each was a damned soul. Either they had been transformed into trees, or else they had been pegged inside the trees as Sycorax did to Ariel in The Tempest. I was led to a bare patch of ground, where I was to be rooted—but I refused. I told them that I had to see Doom first. I insisted.

In the end, they gave in.

I had the Talisman, which, being a metaphysical artifact as much as it was a solid object, was whole and undamaged on this side of reality. Although he was there physically, he could use it. That was what I had gone to all that trouble over. I seem to remember that he was bound to a rock—which may be out of a myth I read, or it may be real. I am sure that the legions of Hell were expecting me to spit on his mask, and curse him.

I approached the rock, and said, "My lord?"

He turned his head, and met my eyes. "You?" he asked, disbelieving.

"You forgot this." I said, and put the artifact in his hand.

What followed, I don't really know. I think he said, after he was free, before he returned to the Earth we knew, "If you are here, then you are dead!"

I know I told him to hurry it up and get home before my brain got damaged. Being dead was odd. It's a very naked state.

In the here-and-now of waiting for Mastermind to make his move, I became aware of the smell of smoke. It was coming from the bottom of my tower. The stairs were only blocked to human passage; air could flow freely. He had lit a fire, and was trying to force me out.

Greasy black smoke billowed around me, trapped by the cupola roof. The tower itself could not burn, but I could suffocate. All my elaborate arrangement in the other tower wasn't such a good idea after all; I had blocked off my only means of getting down.

The smoke was terrible—it was choking me. My eyes were streaming with tears as I fumbled my way out onto the walkway—I needed to be able to breathe. That, too, was a mistake—because no sooner had I taken ten steps than the world went insane around me. The fire had been an illusion—the smoke had not been real.

I was lost in a full-sensory hallucination. All that I saw, heard, felt, was distorted. A large section of sky broke like an egg, raining gigantic yellow globules. I could taste screaming, smell the color magenta. I staggered, overwhelmed. No! That was what he wanted, that I should fall off the wall. The verses to Humpty Dumpty ran through my mind, as if sung by a debased choir…

I could not trust my senses. The towers still existed, the walkway was solid under my feet, even if I felt as though I were swimming. I could trust in their existence…The stone under me seemed to ripple, like a shaken bed sheet. It was all in my head, it was only in my head. I sank to my knees, put my hands out in front of me, feeling around to find out what was in front of me. I was groping in a snow bank, the flakes kissed my hands, and melted away.

Wait—had I heard a cough? I wasn't sure. I pulled myself together. My tower was there; I just had to find it. It was in my memory—I could work my way back to it, where there were no sudden drop-offs. I stood. I hadn't crawled out there—I could not retrace my steps if I were on my hands and knees.

Yes. I could do that…I was reentering a smoke-free tower, when I heard Victor say, "Joviana?"

I turned. There he was, in his armor, at the other end of the walkway, large and solid and reassuring. He had Mastermind by the scruff of the neck, and as I watched, he squeezed.

I could hear the snap as the illusionist's neck broke. I heard it quite clearly.

"They are all gone—executed by my hand for their presumption." he told me, tossing the body aside. It was so like him—in word and in deed.

I definitely heard a cough from somewhere.

"Come!" he commanded. "Let us go home." He spread his arms, as though to encourage me to run to him, and be safely folded in his embrace. There was nothing I wanted more….

So I did.

And then I kneed him in the groin.

I was rewarded by a sickening pain in my knee, as it made contact with his armor—but then the illusion broke and my pain vanished. Mastermind collapsed, clutching his injured parts, groaning and coughing simultaneously. I caught a faint whiff of chloramine gas on his clothing.

"He came up by way of the other tower, and had been partly gassed." I explained to Victor. "All he had to do to avoid it was not be stupid."

"Something of which he was evidently incapable. Well done. Although, if it had been I who you assaulted so personally, you might very well have broken your patella—not to mention committing an act of treason."

"It was a calculated risk. If it was you, since you do wear full armor,I knew that wouldn't have hurt you one bit—or else I wouldn't have tried it."

"I'm not sure I find that reassuring." The humor was there in his voice, though. "We are nearing the point where I enter the scene, however."

"Yes. As I stood there over Mastermind, Magneto deigned to put in his appearance…"

TBC….

* * *

Don't worry, Julietsdaughter. All will be revealed, eventually. Thanks! Wow, a reader in Portugal I have readers in a lot of different countries. This is mind-blowing!

Thank you, GothikStrawberry (love the name!) It is hard to wrap the mind around the concept of a benevolent yet ruthless dictator--somebody who gets enraged when his country makes the top bestfive countriesfor women,infants and children to live--because he didn't make the top three-or the first place. At least that's how I imagine him. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations.


	15. Chapter 15

Technically, Magneto cannot fly; without metal around in some form or another, he was powerless. His suit was made of a very finely woven metal mesh, and he wore a helmet in the ancient Spartan style. It had a T-shaped opening that showed his eyes, nose, mouth, and chin. His blue-grey eyes were glacial, and as he drifted down to stand before me on the walkway, he regarded me as if I were some specimen of bacillus mounted on a slide for study.

I was exhausted in more ways than one, tired, filthy, and at a loss, with nothing left in my bucket of chemicals or my bag of tricks. Or did I have something left after all?

He was powerful, true, and he was one of the world's foremost authorities on genetics and mutation, which meant he was well-educated and intelligent. I should not have to prevent him from killing me for very long—just for long enough. The three hours, give or take a quarter, before Victor could arrive had nearly elapsed.

I had to get him talking. What did I know of Magneto, beyond that he had sneered at me and refused to hire me three years ago? He hated ordinary humans, he had two children who were a few years older than I was, he was old enough to be my grandfather—and he was a holocaust survivor. I could work with that.

It was a very strange thing that a holocaust survivor, a former inmate of the concentration camps, should adopt the attitudes of his former captors so thoroughly…

"You are nothing at all as I expected." he said, without greeting or preamble. "I thought that your allure might be more evident in person than it was in the broadcast announcing your engagement, but even taking into account that you are dirty and disheveled, I still fail to see your attractions."

"What were you expecting?" I asked. If he remembered me at all from our previous meeting, he gave no sign of it.

"Not a fairly ordinary, if over-tall, young woman with a defiant chin. You're not bad-looking, but at best, I would describe you as—striking. Yes, that's the word. Striking. In fact, you're almost plain. If you were some heavenly, ethereal creature, or a deliriously seductive enchantress—but you're not."

"I never pretended I was. What an interesting example of the double standard. Despite the fact that Victor has a face that he will not show to anyone, you're talking about how I would have to be prettier to meet your idea of a woman he would conceivably marry."

"He has money and power. Such things are well known for their ability to inspire the affections of—."

"More attractive women than I? Perhaps you should ask Victor himself why, when he gets here. You're not what I expected, either." I threw in, trying to catch him off balance.

"Am I not?" he asked. "And how so?"

"I would have thought you'd have told me why you are planning on killing me by now." I said it very softly, keeping my voice low. I let my arms hang down tiredly, emphasizing how powerless I was. I might not be entirely human by Magneto's standards, but I was an unarmed woman, and his cultural conditioning out to make him pause before he violated that taboo. "Why must I die? What did I do? If Victor did something to you or yours, I am innocent of it."

"It is not what you have done, but what will happen if you marry him. No less than three persons who can foresee the future have predicted…" He fell silent.

"Predicted what?" I prompted.

"That it will be the end of the world—as we know it. You yourself are unimportant. It is what you represent."

"Was that what they said when they sent your family to the death camp?"

"What?" he asked, taken aback.

"Was your mother unimportant? When her ashes fell from the sky like flakes of bitter snow after she was murdered and cremated, what did she represent then?"

"Very good. You know some history. Then you will understand that what I do, I do to prevent that from happening once again. The mutants will not be so readily slaughtered."

"Yet you would accomplish this by visiting the same fate on others."

"What a remarkable voice you have. If I were to listen only to the tone, I would think you were stroking the ear with feathers, but if I listen to the words, it turns out to be a razor. Never mind. I can guess what you are getting at; you are trying to talk me out of killing you. You needn't bother."

"Is--is my life over, then?"

"No. Your fiancé has done something which makes it impossible for me to harm a hair on your head." He said it sourly. "I would not be swayed by any ordinary threat, and he knew it. He could swear himself my mortal enemy until he was blue in the face, and I would pay no heed. If he declared war on Genosha and threatened to raze it down to bare rock, I would laugh at him."

Magneto's voice was getting louder as he explained how immune he was to ordinary threats. "But what he decided to do is an outrage. It is the dirtiest trick I have ever had played on me. I am hamstrung. I am shackled. It is very nearly beyond my power to comprehend. It violates every convention—!"

"What did he do?" I asked, relaxing a little.

"He bought up every scrap of Genoshan national debt!" Magneto shouted. "He says he'll call in every last penny, and make sure I cannot sign for any others. I cannot fight that! He would watch an entire country starve to death slowly if you cease to breathe. That is what he did!"

I was dumbstruck for a moment. I only thought I had admired and respected Victor up until this point, in comparison to what I now felt. He had taken the entire country of Genosha financially hostage for my sake. That was brilliant. It was bold, daring, original, uniquely potent—and sustainable.

Magneto was still complaining. "I don't know what he thinks he's about. That is not how these things are done."

"You're whining to the wrong woman." I said. "Does the kidnapping of an innocent woman and the murder of two bodyguards and a driver fit into how things are done? No doubt it does. After all, they weren't mutants, and were therefore insignificant—just like your parents were. But let someone come up with a check-mating move that is as non-violent as it is unsuspected, and you get upset that he isn't playing by the rules."

He glared at me. "I did not kill, nor order killed, your attendants. That was Malice's doing."

"But you were her superior. You are responsible by association."

"Be silent, woman!" he roared at me.

"I have no idea why you think I'd obey you. How thoroughly you absorbed the Nazi attitude! I've heard your speeches. Substitute 'Aryan' for 'Mutant', and they could have come right out of Hitler's mouth. You shouldn't blame yourself, though—it's a common psychological survival tactic known as Stockholm Syndrome, where a hostage starts to identify with his captors. Sufficient psychoanalysis—counseling and therapy— should be able to help you."

I don't think many people disagree with Magneto—not to his face, at any rate. His features darkened and twisted. He drew back his arm, preparing to strike me.

"Don't." said Victor. How he managed to sneak up on us, I'll never know.

Magneto was worked up into a blinding rage. He turned, and swung at Victor instead, which was not a bright move. The battle was joined.

I threw myself flat as the property damage began. Seeing that Victor wears armor—thick, solid metal armor—one would think that he would be particularly vulnerable to Magneto's powers. There is a way of de-magnetizing metal while allowing it to retain its strength and durability, and although it was expensive and time-consuming to make, his armor was made entirely of that.

Of the two combatants who flung power bolts and blows, who deflected and parried the advances of the other, Magneto was the angrier. With his ability to shape and manipulate magnetic fields, both natural and artificial, he could lift and hurl many tons of weight at a time—if there was something metallic about them. He also could affect electromagnetic radiation and energy, and had some psychic abilities as well. But he was twice Victor's age, which made a difference in his basic physical abilities.

Victor had extremely advanced, virtually impregnable armor with a lot of functions built into it—for example, the suit computers could sense, track, and predict where and when the next attack would come. It also had a force field generator and concussion blasters, as well as other weaponry built into it, a nearly inexhaustible arsenal of technology that was beyond cutting edge.

Mind you, he could only lift about two, two and a half tons with it on.

The outcome of their conflict was never in any doubt.

"Victor, he is a senior citizen." I pointed out. "Old bones take forever to heal."

"Is that a suggestion, or a plea for clemency on his behalf?"

"For physical mercy. He won't be able to answer questions very readily if you break his jaw."

"There is that to be taken into consideration." Victor admitted graciously. "Very well. You have explanations to make. I will hear them now. Why did you abduct my bride?" He lowered the older man to the ground.

TBC….

A/N: Hello, Chantrea! Cambodia...Now you really have me excited. I think I might have readers on every continent except Antarctica! Thank you. Yes, I put real-world chemistry into the story. That is really what would happen if you mixed lye with ammonia, especially in an unventilated space.

GothikStrawberry: Ah, just wait! The intriguing part is what he remembers that she doesn't! ( and thank you.)


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: While there isn't a candlelight dinner in this chapter, careful readers will find a lot of romance in this one!

* * *

"Why?" Magneto echoed. "Because you would do far better to break her neck than to take her as your wife. Or," he hastily amended, because Victor's body language suddenly suggested that he would disregard the fragility of old bones, "at the very least, call off the wedding, and not marry her. This marriage will bring about the end of the world as we know it."

I had been too busy before this to give that prediction any real thought. To me it could mean only one thing: that I would succeed in eradicating super heroism (but not the heroes themselves) from the planet. Super villainy would be wiped out as well, because the two went together, as thunder follows on the heels of lightning. No longer would people settle disputes by hitting each other with buses, and leveling city blocks in the process. The humans, mutant and otherwise, who had special powers would find peaceful, constructive applications for them.

It fit the prediction, because it would be the end of the world as they knew it, making way for a better world, a saner, stronger one.

Perhaps someday I would even be able to point out to Victor that none of the other world leaders went around in armor, and if he were to wear a well-tailored suit as he had for dinner last night, the United Nations would give his statements and ideas even more weight than they already did. I dreamed of that day…

"Magneto," said Victor with exaggerated patience. "The world as we know it comes to an end twice a year on average. Nothing ever comes of it but several weeks of upheaval before the status quo is restored. Sometimes one is left with two sets of memories before the multiversal split is mended and the timestream returns to normal, and then the secondary set is subsumed."

I nodded, and added, "It's as inevitable as the truth that whenever the world is imperiled, someone or other always manages to save it at the very last moment—except, of course, when the peril is something entirely mundane. Those take a lot of time and money to correct."

"That is entirely in keeping with your usual acuity, my dear," Victor told me. "It is worthy of more discussion."

"But this is not the time? I understand." I said. "I interrupted. Do go on."

Victor turned back to Magneto. "Furthermore, my chosen companion of my future life has no powers nor the capacity to develop them. I can only assume you have taken leave of your senses. Again. I must warn you that mere insanity does not exonerate you in my eyes."

"I know she hasn't any powers." growled Magneto. "That was the first thing I checked for. That makes this even worse. How can it be fought or prevented, if she—"

Victor interrupted. "Say, rather, she and I. If this fate is dependant upon our marriage, then it is not she alone who is responsible for it."

Magneto went on. "If this change, this end, is accomplished without the use of any powers? The fabric of the universe is strange—that which is done using powers is writ in sand, it takes but little to erase it, and the faster it is done, the quicker and easier it is to undo. But without powers—without them, it is writ in stone."

Magneto really was intelligent. Some of his observations were surprisingly similar to mine—but he didn't seem to know why, whereas I did.

"May I ask, first of all, where you got your information, and second, exactly how the world as we know it is supposed to come to an end?" I inquired. "If anybody has a right to know, I do."

"And I insist on hearing this as well." Victor added his authority. "I heard nothing of this until this hour."

"Yesterday morning—no, the day before yesterday, now, every seer who I know woke with an unfocused premonition of something that would shortly happen. Then came your announcement, and the vision came into sharp definition. The three to whom I spoke were Destiny, Apocalypse, and Kang the Destroyer." Magneto stated.

"I thought Destiny was dead—that is, if you mean the elderly mutant woman who called herself Irene Adler, after the character in Sherlock Holmes." I replied.

"She was cloned!" snapped Magneto.

"Uh-huh." I said, dripping with sarcasm.

"Kang the Destroyer claims that he is a future version of Doom, which he most assuredly is not." said Victor. "Two of your three would-be sources are spurious. And as for the third, I think but little of him either. What form will this end take—in fire or in ice?"

"In mundanity." Magneto told us. "With law-suits, regulations, constraints, accountability. There will be an end to honest battle. There will be an end to many freedoms. Those who call themselves heroes will dwindle away, until they become little more than missionaries who deliver public service announcements, and give performances of their powers for charity. Those who call themselves villains will diminish into jokes. Mutants—mutants will be no more than anyone else. Their gifts will be squandered on forty-hour-a-week jobs. They will never take their rightful place in this world as the natural leaders of it."

"It sounds to me as if you are describing the future of mutants as being contributing members of society, and you talk as if that were a bad thing." I commented. Victor seemed content to let me lead the conversation in the direction I wanted; he was silently following the exchange.

"I call it slavery! To labor for the benefit of Homo sapiens, for mere wages. Our powers proclaim us the superior race!"

"Is it your assertion that all mutants are superior to all humans, then?" I asked.

He walked right into my trap. "Yes!"

"Then how do you explain what I was able to do to your four cohorts, then? As you can see, I don't have a scratch on me. If they're the Evolved, clearly they haven't evolved enough."

Magneto went almost as pale as I am myself. Then he said, after a few deep breaths, with great care and deliberation, "Your gene complex for intelligence—and most particularly for memory—constitutes a favorable mutation despite the lack of more conventional signs of it. Intelligence is a primary survival trait, after all."

"Bravo." I said. "If Hitler had been able to think his way around pitfalls as you do, at the 1936 Olympics, he would have clapped Jesse Owens on the back after the son of sharecroppers and grandson of slaves made a lie of all the Nazi party claimed, and declared Mr. Owens one of the finest Aryans he had ever had the pleasure to have met."

"You—"Whatever it was Magneto might have wanted to call me, he thought better of it.

"Unexpectedly, I find myself enjoying this immensely." Victor observed. "Four cohorts? That would explain the disreputable individual who is curled in the fetal position over there." He gestured toward Mastermind. "Allow me to add my part to this discussion.

"You say that our union will prove the end of the world as we know it. Of course it will. With her by my side, the scales shall be tipped in my favor—my inspiration, my helpmeet, my anodyne, the leaven in the bread which is my life." Victor gave me a look so approving that I almost swayed under the impact.

"Do you imagine I would marry beneath me? I did not know my judgment was as good as this, but I accept it. The world will prosper under the rule of Doom; it is to be anticipated eagerly, not feared. There will be peace. There will be equity in all things. Mutants shall have no higher nor lower a place than they deserve on their individual merits. You sought to prevent this marriage by removing her from my side before the wedding."

"Obviously." said Magneto.

"Tell me, the action I took to prevent you from harming this inestimable gift life saw fit to give me, when I bought up all Genosha's national debts, did it suggest nothing to you in the face of these predictions?"

"Such as what?" asked Magneto.

"Are these not the very tactics of which you complained?"

"I—it." Magneto began. He was not having a good day. Victor and I were playing with his wits like the ball in a game of Ping-Pong.

"Your error was in thinking that preventing the wedding would prevent our marriage." Victor told him. "A wedding is merely a ceremony. A marriage is a relationship. We are already married."

That pretty well floored Magneto. He looked to me for confirmation.

"By the laws of Latveria, yes, we are. And in every way." I clinched it.

"Too late…too late." He staggered.

"Far too late." Victor reinforced it. "And now we must discuss some important matters."

"What is there to discuss?" asked Magneto.

"How you are to repay the money Genosha now owes Latveria, and how you are to become self-sufficient, because otherwise you're just going to sink further into debt—and how you are to repay us personally for the trauma and inconvenience you have caused."

"If this is going to take any length of time, can we go in out of the sun?" I asked.

"I am sure that can be arranged." Victor replied, "Come, my dearest partner of greatness." and he offered me his arm.

The last line was straight from Macbeth, and as it happened, I had a perfect comeback.

"Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?" I indicated Magneto.

"I heard that!"

"There will be no actual blood spilled." Victor reassured him. "This pound of flesh will be extracted bloodlessly."

"You're mixing your plays…" I told him, as we went.

TBC…

* * *

A/N: Chantrea Savann--I don't mind your asking at all. I live in Maryland, in the United States, near Washington, DC

GothikStrawberry: Well, it bodes big changes for this particular AU of Marvel's...


	17. Chapter 17

Ben Grimm once said to Victor, concerning Latveria, "Yeah, sure, Vic. As long as the whole country kow-tows to you, you're a real sweetheart." I don't deny the kow-towing part, but what a sweetheart he can be! The man knows how to run a country, even to the point of controlling the weather, which is why he could afford to buy up the Genoshan national debt.

The year the snowcap on Mount Doom melted away, we had a terrible drought. At our altitude, without so many meters of snowfall to melt away slowly over the months, we get very dry by the time the autumn rains start. Simply getting away from fossil fuels was not enough.

Rather than break the budget importing an awful lot of bottled water, Victor developed, built, and launched the orbital weather platforms, which not only control the weather but can be fine tuned to the point where a forecaster can say, "The first snowfall of the season will begin at 10 pm tonight, and continue until 4 tomorrow morning. Depending on your microclimate, you will get nine to twelve centimeters. Don't get too excited, kids, that isn't nearly enough to close the schools. You know the Master doesn't want you to miss a single day if he can possibly help it. Education is important. Tomorrow will be bright and clear…" and know the prediction would be absolutely accurate.

Latveria being a small country, the platforms could handle more territory than our postage-stamp, and soon we were providing optimal weather patterns to Romania and other parts of Eastern Europe. It proved so popular, so profitable, and a service so in demand that we had to build more, and now we are contracted to provide the weather for much of Europe and Russia. (The cost for ensuring a sunny day for a particular event, such as a private wedding, is exorbitant, but sports fans pay up for important games, added to the ticket surcharge.) The money is flooding in.

Genosha was now in debt to us for over 80 billion Euros, which may not be very much in terms of the United States' debts but which is a very great deal for two countries as small in terms of population and geography as ours were. It's all in the scale of how one does things—instead of buying us a fixer-upper house, Victor had essentially bought a fixer-upper country.

It was going to need a lot of work, the extent of which became clear during the twenty minutes we spent coming to terms with Magneto, and it was going to take a lot of money. Genosha needed to stop living on credit and build up a sound economic base, and it badly needed both a health care system and schools. The mortality rate for both mothers and infants was terrible, and the reason for that was because the mothers and babies were all mutants.

Some babies had bad mutations, by which I mean ones that are fatal. Being born without lungs of any kind is bad, even if they might have skin that was able to perform an efficient oxygen-carbon dioxide exchange— if the air were seventy percent neon instead of nitrogen. Genosha needed health care facilities that could diagnose that before birth—because if it were discovered afterward, it was almost always during a post-mortem.

Mutant mothers suffered problems of their own. A mutant might be a telepath of great strength and skill—but have no other differences from the human norm. If she was pregnant with a child who developed powers like the Human Torch's or the Thing's—before birth—it usually meant a dead mother and a dead baby.

If there is any human plight that moves Victor more than any other, it is that of a mother and child in danger. This is something very deeply rooted in him, going back to his own infancy, when his mother died so tragically young. So when Magneto started spouting Social Darwinism at him about how only the strong deserved to survive, it nearly prompted another fight.

As for the schools, I outlined my ideas for occupational and career development for mutants according to their powers, in lines of work other than 'professional assassin' or 'terrorist', emphasizing the possibilities that had gone hitherto unexplored.

Latveria would invade Genosha after all, it seemed, but with an army of doctors, nurses, scientists, economic advisors, and educational experts. Most of them would be ordinary humans, because most of the world population is ordinary and human. The mutants of Genosha were going to have to accept it. Magneto was inclined to complain about that, and about what he perceived as our interference. Victor pointed out that all he had to do to reclaim the independence of his country was come up with 80 billion Euros, which quieted Magneto down considerably.

There was more to it than that, of course. The island was forfeit Magneto would remain the leader of Genosha, with all honors and dignities intact, but with certain conditions attached. Politically, Genosha would now follow Latveria's lead when and as Victor required it; publicly, Magneto would speak of Latveria in general and of us in particular, with the greatest respect. He would also stay invited to the wedding, if he chose to attend. He probably would—to show he wasn't afraid or ashamed.

It would be a revenge like no other, a lingering one, with a special sting to it—every time Magneto looked around him at the new Genosha, when he saw the medical facilities, the farms, the schools—it would be another twist of the knife, because his enemy—no, his enemies, for I was counted along with Victor—were doing for his people what he could not.

I was very glad when Victor stated, spontaneously and without any word from me, "While of course my greatest concern in this matter—the life and welfare of my wife—has been resolved to my satisfaction, there remains the cold-blooded murder of three of my people—doubly my people, being both Latverian and in my personal service. I require that the perpetrator be handed over to my justice."

"That will prove difficult, if not impossible. The assassin, a mutant called Malice, is a purely psychic entity who has no physical existence without a human host." Magneto replied.

"I am sure I can devise some fitting form of punishment. Where is this Malice?"

"That is the other problem. I do not know. After your—wife defeated her, she jumped to Sabertooth: after that, to Mastermind, and I do not now see the 'choker' on him which indicates her presence in a host." Magneto stated dryly. "As you can see, my neck is bare, as is Lady Doom's. Perhaps if you were to reveal your own neck?"

"She isn't riding him." I refuted. "If she did not try to impersonate me because she didn't think she could pass herself off as me, she wouldn't succeed in convincing me she was him. Besides," I spoke directly to Victor, in Latverian, "she wouldn't be able to begin to comprehend your mind, or appreciate what a solid, well shaped—personality you have."

"Or speak Latverian, either, apparently." A private moment seized in that important meeting. He turned back to Magneto. "Are you so certain she needs a specifically human or mutant host?"

"Ah—what other host might she have found, on this barren island?"

"A sea bird, a dolphin, some such creature."

"A shark would suit her admirably." I added. "How highly developed a central nervous system would she need to sustain her consciousness, do you think? I've neither seen nor heard any birds, and the only living non-human animals I've seen were a starfish and a mouse. I doubt the starfish would be complex enough, but where there is one mouse, there will very likely be dozens. At least it would be mammalian."

That brought us to the present moment, as Victor and I watched the mutants prepare to go. Malice could not be located, which troubled me deeply. Magneto's other three stooges evaded further punishment on the grounds that I had already done enough to them.

Curiously enough, Magneto had not asked Victor why he had chosen me. Perhaps he had forgotten, or not wanted to make Victor any angrier. He might have drawn his own conclusions on the matter, after observing us together.

I turned to the man who stood by me in the deepening shade of a half-fallen tower. "Victor—please forgive me for accepting your gifts with such poor grace this morning. I spoke without thinking or considering, so of course I said all the wrong things. Thank you for making me such a magnificent present."

"You are forgiven." He paused. "It was not my intent to make you uncomfortable by the gift, but rather the opposite. In the circles in which, as my wife, you will move, jewels are expected—almost required—as essentials of formal dress. Were you to appear without any, it would be commented on, unfavorably, even to your very face."

"I hadn't thought of that." I considered some of the dignitaries' wives I had encountered, who appeared in enough diamonds to make it look as if they had freezer burn.

I went on with what I had to say. "I missed you this morning, when I woke, and you weren't there."

"I woke and found I could not get back to sleep. After an hour and a half, I abandoned the effort, and got up. I am not accustomed to sharing a bed, as pleasant as it is to do so. The adjustment may take some time."

"I understand completely. I—at the time, I felt—like you had taken your pleasure and left. Right now, I feel full of questions and uncertainties. The adjustment may take some time."

"But no doubts?" he asked.

"No doubts whatsoever." It was true. In some respects that day had been very good for me. I was a lot more confident now. I could handle four mutants with no more than my wits and the contents of a grocery bag. I could talk down Magneto. I could change the world!

I could even talk to Victor about the promise to obey. "I am concerned about getting up in front of the entire world and promising to obey you, although if the ceremony was held in a closet at midnight with only the Bishop, Boris and my mother there, I'd still feel the same way. Not because I don't trust you, or intent to go around being disobedient, but because it would feel as though I were agreeing to be annihilated as an individual.

"When I promised to obey you as your minion, that wasn't an issue, because I knew where the dividing line was. I knew where you ended and I began. I could think my own thoughts, and make my own decisions, even when the order was very personal. Like when you told me my attire was inappropriate and I should dress in keeping with my position." That had been at the very beginning, when all I had were ratty old jeans and oversized sweatshirts.

"I asked you what you considered appropriate, so I would get it right—I was extremely relieved that steel bustiers were not involved, by the way—"

"Steel bustiers?" he asked, amused.

"Well—I didn't know. Once I knew, I went and made Bisitra very happy. I knew if I wanted to, I could wear my old sloppies in my time off. Now that we're married, where is that line? Do I ever have time off?"

"I believe I see." he considered a moment. "If I were to issue an order such as, 'That tree's coming down—get back!' you would obey, would you not?"

"Immediately."

"Would such an order compromise your autonomy?"

"Not in the least."

"And if I were to say, 'I must prevent Galactus from devouring the planet. Rule Latveria in my absence.' would this order intrude upon your sense of self?"

He did not wait for my reply. "I doubt there is anyone who has a greater respect for your individuality than I. So far from wanting to suppress your thoughts and decisions, I want—no, expect— that you will think, decide, and act of your own volition. If you were no more than a parroting mirror of what I am, if you had no thoughts of your own, and always deferred to me—you would not be Joviana. I do not seek to destroy such valuable aspects of your being. We are married, ceremony or no. I assure you I will give you the same orders whether you promise to obey or not."

I considered that for a moment. It is very difficult to disagree with a man when he believes you are capable of running a country.

Did it matter if those two words were included in the vows or not, when he and I had such an understanding between us in private?

"If I promise to obey, will you promise to respect?" I asked finally.

"With my given word." he said.

Magneto had left and taken his band with him. The vocal grille in the mask turned out to be removable, and I finally got to say hello and thank him properly, if carefully, due to the armor.

After a kiss that made me regret there was not a sleep mask handy, or anything to serve as a bed, I did sober up a bit.

"I've made an enemy." I told him. "I don't mean Magneto and his merry crew. I mean Malice. When I fought her off with my memories, I revealed too much about myself. She knows my original name. She knows something about where I grew up, and what my birth mother looks like. She could be dangerous. She could use that knowledge against me. "

"If she dares." Victor replied, his tone making it clear he thought that unlikely.

I had a better sense of how things must work themselves out, however. Stories have inevitable patterns. Malice would trace her way down the torturous footpaths of my past. I would have to confront her again, and this time she would not make it as easy for me.

I also knew, as the night follows the day, that I would end up face to face with my mother, whom I dreaded more than the torments of Hell. And I was one person who could say that and mean it.

The End of Part One

But wait! This is only the end of part one of Minion. The story of Victor and Joviana will continue right herein Part TWO, 'Lady Doom'!

A sneak preview—Before returning to Latveria, the most intelligent couple in the world will be heading to the Embassy in New York, where they will spend 36 to 48 hours.

During that time, Sue will whisk Joviana off for an afternoon of shopping with two of her super powered girlfriends-- the Wasp, AKA, Janet Van Dyne, a socialite-heiress turned superhero and fashion designer, and the She-Hulk, Jennifer Walters, a lawyer (and cousin to the Hulk) and the bustiest of all the Marvel heroines…

Joviana will also grant one interview, complete with photos taken by one Peter Parker, AKA Spiderman. Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer who is secretly Daredevil, will also appear.

One of these heroes shares a secret past with Joviana, from before she ever met Victor…

Learn why Joviana is down on the very idea of super heroism!

Still more! More flashbacks! More about the trip to Hell and back! More romance! More danger! More villains! More passion! More witty give-and-take!

Keep Reading!

A/N: Hello, **Chantrea Savann**! I'm afraid I'm a little stuck on Happy Phantom at the moment. I hope I can get back to it soon. In the meantime, here's more of Minion. I'm glad you liked the way in which Victor declared his feelings--I worked hard on that part.

**Julietsdaughter:** There's still several days to go until the wedding, but when the time comes, it'll be here with lots of detail, I promise.

**GothikStrawberry:** I know what you mean. Sometimes I like Magneto and sometimes I don't.This was one of the don'ts.

**Madripoor Rose**:What a compliment--I'm glad you thought the eyestrain was worth it!


	18. Lady Doom

Part 2: Lady Doom

We were in Victor's aircraft, heading toward New York and the Latverian embassy there, as Victor had said that although home was only three hours away at maximum speed, it had been a stressful day, speeds such as that were very unforgiving, and he was not about to take any chances with our lives. By that he meant that he was tired, and small wonder, as it was about seven in the morning in Latveria, and he had not slept during the time I was missing.

I had no problem with the idea of a stop-over in New York, and said so. We were proceeding at a more moderate speed.

As I watched the clouds ripple past underneath us, something struck me, and I asked him, "When you offered me your hand, after you brought me back to life, was that—Were you proposing to me then?"

"Yes." he said, with amusement.

"I had no idea you meant it in that sense. It went completely over my head."

"Somewhat to my consternation." he agreed.

* * *

I came to slowly afterward, not cold in the least, but as I drifted back to consciousness, I became aware of all these annoyances that were bothering me. For example, something was pinching my index finger, something else was sticking me in the arm, persistently and painfully and yet another something was stuck up my nose. 

Several things seemed to be wrong with my neck. Plus, there was a feeling from below my waist that reminded me of a physical exam, but which wasn't quite the same. That was getting a little too personal for me. All of these little irritating things built up on me until I had to open my eyes and see what was going on.

I knew I had to be in one of the parts of the castle dedicated to science immediately upon seeing the ceiling, because it was flat, white and utilitarian. The other ceilings in the castle were much more decorative.

I raised my head and looked around. I was in the infirmary, and that meant I must have succeeded. Victor, or Doom as he was to me then, was back. I had told the med staff what I was hoping to achieve by drowning myself, and given them strict instructions that under no circumstances was anyone but Doom to initiate my resuscitation. I didn't want to be brought back too soon—imagine if I had evaporated in the act of handing him the Amulet!

It wasn't a cheerful, convalescent invalid's room, with flowers and cards. It was a room of a patient who might never smell flowers or read messages of hope and love. Anyone not familiar with magical theory would have questioned the lines drawn on the walls and the floor, and wondered at the guttered candle stubs in the corners. I recognized the colors and sigils for healing. Bringing me back must have been complicated…

The 'GYN exam' feeling seemed to be a catheter. I had an IV in my arm, which was the stabbing pain, and oxygen tubes up my nose. The pinching in my index finger was some device for summoning a nurse, who looked very surprised to see me conscious.

"You're awake? Or—are you?" she asked. "Can you tell me who and where you are?"

"I'm Joviana Florescu, and this should be Castle Doom." I croaked. "Can I have a glass of water?"

"Of course! This is wonderful, we didn't know how much of you we were going to get back…" She raised the head of the bed and gave me the water I asked for. "I've got to alert the Master now. He left orders that no matter what the hour, if—I mean, when, you regained consciousness, he was to be summoned immediately. It might take him a while to get here, if he comes. It's the middle of the night, and he was awake for over forty hours straight."

She left me for a moment, and I tried to gather up the memories of my time in the Netherworld, which was like fishing for minnows in a creek with only my hands for a net—all I could do was glimpse images and vainly try to corner slippery silver thoughts.

I put a hand to my neck, and got it tangled in something while my fingers explored the bandages that covered my jugular. What had happened to my neck? For that matter, what was I tangled in? I looked at it.

It was a chain that I recognized from a case in the castle museum up on the third level, a part of the regalia of the Knighthood of the Order of the Dragon. It was a high honor to be made a Knight of the Order, one not given to noble or royal blood alone, but for some distinguished service performed, a brave and selfless deed.

It was an old, old piece, from the fifteenth century, its twisted enameled links set with carbuncles and pearls, forming symbols of virtue, and the pendant of the Dragon was a work of art, the dragon's body made of an enormous baroque pearl, a lumpy but elongated shape that did suggest a body and tapering tail.

Only one person could have or would have taken this from its display case and put it around my neck. Doom had knighted me while I was not aware of it. I was sorry I had missed that. It wasn't exactly a selfless deed I had performed, and I had been sure I would survive it, so I felt a little odd about the knighthood—but wow! I was a knight! My inner six-year-old, who had spent as much time as possible running around in the woods and pretending I was Robin Hood, was doing cartwheels.

The nurse returned with a doctor and another nurse, who proceeded to run some tests to see if they could detect any obvious brain damage. The IV was removed, as was the catheter, which made me a much happier woman. The oxygen tubes and the bandages stayed, but the call button found a new location on the side of the bed. The two newcomers then retired.

"What happened?" I asked my original nurse.

"Well, you were submerged for about twenty minutes when the Master reappeared in the Great Hall, just where he was before it all happened. I didn't see it myself—I was on call in the corridor by the courtyard, waiting to resuscitate you. The problem was, not everyone had faith—there were three or four of the high officials who were stripping the place."

"He'd only been gone a few hours!" I protested.

"Uh-huh. Well, the Master headed for the courtyard, and you, but he took the shortcut through the art gallery, where Von Gretznau had taken three paintings off the wall already, and was arguing with Kosciusko over the ownership of the one Matisse."

"Oh, dear." That could not have been good.

"He shouted "Loyalty followed me down to Hell itself, and what does treachery do in my absence? Vultures!' and threw Kosciusko in one direction through the archway into the next gallery room, and Von Gretznau in the other, down the stairs."

"And?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"Von Gretznau was dead by the time he reached the bottom landing. Kosciusko had internal injuries, but the Master said anyone who gave him assistance was guilty of aiding a traitor, and everyone with any medical background was busy with you, anyway… He died yesterday."

That was something I could never allow myself to forget, or to overlook—the violence in him, and the viciousness. Victor was the law in Latveria, and he was well within his rights when he—disciplined his people, but just because it was legal did not mean that it was right.

The nurse was continuing. "Then he was out to the courtyard, and Boris reversed the winch's motor immediately. When you were hauled out of the well, you looked dead. You looked as if you belonged on a slab. You were blue, and in that little time it took to get you indoors, the ends of your hair had icicles frozen on them. It was a bitterly cold night."

"I remember."

"We got to work on you right away. The Master not only directed the treatment, he did much of it himself. You noticed the bandages on your throat? We had to get your core body temperature up to normal as fast as possible, so a big vein had to be opened, a tube inserted, and your blood run out of your body, through a warmer, and then back into you again. He wouldn't let anyone else wield the scalpel, and he really did a beautiful job."

"That's good…What about my mother? Does she know?" Galina Florescu was the mother my heart had always cried out for.

"She's in one of the castle's guest suites. She's been broken up over this."

"Oh, no…"

"You mustn't worry about her. Now that we know you're going to be all right, she'll be just fine."

"How long was I out?"

"Twenty-three minutes spent submerged, and fifty-four hours since then." The voice came not from the nurse, but from the doorway, and it was male. Doom entered the room. "She is stable?" he asked the woman.

"Yes. She's recovering well."

"Good. Leave us." She shut the door behind her.

"Only twenty-three minutes. It seemed like hours." I marveled.

"Time is elastic in the Netherworld. You now have the unique distinction of having died in my service, and being alive to talk about it. You chose a very precise, not to mention trusting, form of death."

"I stacked the odds in my favor as much as I could. I remembered a boy who fell into a flooded mine hole in February, in the town where I grew up. He was successfully resuscitated after forty-five minutes. It took me less than half an hour's research on line to confirm that drowning in extremely cold water was the method of death that offered the greatest chance of recovery. The shock of immersion in such cold water drives oxygen-rich blood to the brain and the heart, and the younger the person, the colder and purer the water, the better the chances are."

"What prompted you to gorge yourself on chocolates beforehand?"

That was the fun part of the whole thing. I had stuffed the better part of a pound of Weinrich and Boettcher's, (the chocolatiers down in Doomstadt), best examples of confectionary heaven into my mouth in preparation for my trip down the well. Usually I only permitted myself one or two, remembering that I had a weight problem before and could easily do so again. But when you are preparing to die…

"One word that kept coming up in the available literature was hypoglycemia, very low blood sugar, as part of the attendant symptoms. Of course you know what hypoglycemia is, I'm babbling. Forgive me."

"You are forgiven."

"When we were last in Washington, there was an interesting article in the Post about these frogs that live in Maryland bogs. They freeze solid during the winter—completely solid. When the weather warms up, they thaw out and hop away, without any ill effects whatsoever. Just before the freeze, their blood chemistry alters itself, in preparation. Their blood sugar levels soar, almost as if they suddenly became diabetic. It protects their internal organs from damage. I didn't think it would work for me exactly the way it works for them, but I thought it was worth a try—especially in connection with the hypoglycemia reported in human victims."

"I see. Another of your insights. A combination of the logical and the intuitive. It will bear further study; you may have provided the crucial breakthrough in making cryogenics truly feasible. You appear to have suffered no brain damage—none, at any rate, that I can ascertain while conversing with you."

"Thanks to you. If I was rude to you while I was dead, I apologize—and that may be the oddest statement I have ever been called on to make in my entire life."

"Rude? No. You were not rude. You showed only a forgivable impatience under the circumstances. I take it that your memories of what went on are imperfect?"

"To put it mildly, yes. Did I miss a lot?"

"That remains to be seen. Your actions and your assistance spared me a great deal of time and trouble, for which I thank you. Ultimately the result would have been the same, but the help you provided was, is, appreciated."

"You're welcome." I said.

"For the sentiments which prompted that aid, I likewise offer you my thanks—and more. I am aware that I am not an easy man to like on what I might call the personal level." He was removing the metal gauntlets that completed his armor as he spoke.

"I did not set out to become what I am in order to be liked. The things I must do to achieve my goals sometimes preclude it all together. That you should like me with no other incentive than the continued pleasure of my company—moves me. In token of which, I offer you my hand. Will you take it?" He extended it toward me.

"Of course." It was warm and solid, his skin lightly calloused, the grip firm but gentle.

* * *

At the time, I had thought it a gesture of friendship, of regard and respect, and never imagined that it was the ultimate of such gestures. 

"Oh, no! What did you think of it at the time?" I laughed in self-deprecation.

"I recalled that you did not fully remember what had happened in Hades, and realized that your mind did not know the truth your soul revealed. There is no lying after death, no concealment, no dissembling, and no artifice."

"What happened?" I asked. "Did I say that I loved you?"

"Did you say that you loved me?" he repeated. "Not in so many words, and had it only been that, I would have shrugged it off. Half the women in Latveria are 'in love' with me, or what they imagine me to be, and it means nothing."

"Will you tell me what I said?" I asked. "I'm dying to know."

"Yes, I will. But not today."

"Youterrible man." I scolded him, "Will it be soon, though?"

"Very soon."

With that I had to be content, for he would not divulge another word.

A/N: Thank you, **GothikStrawberry!** I'll do my best to keep the interaction sparking!

**Amokitty,** thanks for the glowing and thoughtful review. The revelations will start trickling in soon...


	19. Chapter 19

It was night before we reached the Latverian embassy in New York. I had been there several times since the fateful day of our first meeting, and twice for extended times, several weeks to two months. The ambassador and his wife had regarded me almost as part of the luggage Victor brought with him—that is, except when I wound up on the evening news—which had happened twice so far. Then they looked at me as if I were a guest's partially housebroken puppy—something they had to put up with without complaint, even when I made messes.

This visit, however, they could not have been nicer—or faker. They welcomed us, expressed their joy at seeing us, and said how delighted they were I was their First Lady. Yeah, right. Madame Ambassador showed me around my suite herself, pointing out all that she had done specifically for my comfort. I was very happy when she finally withdrew, and I could shower in peace.

I could hear metallic noises coming from Victor's suite as I undressed; quarters here were closer than in the castle. He was probably undressing too. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn't wonder that Magneto had called me 'fairly ordinary' and 'almost plain'. I looked like I had been through the wars, and the sea air had frizzed my thick, coarse hair into something like steel wool. Soap and hot water helped, and I put a lot of conditioner on my hair and hoped that would fix it.

We ate in private. Making any more effort than putting on a robe suddenly seemed impossible. Madame Ambassador had provided not one but three brand-new nightgowns, ranging in allure from 'Not tonight, dear' to 'Take a double dose of Viagra, honey'. I went with the one in the middle, 'Let's cuddle'—and, as is inevitable with new nightwear, I promptly dropped a big blob of toothpaste on it. I resolved to brush my teeth while naked on my wedding night.

What she did not provide, however, was a sleep-mask. Consequently, Victor spent the night in his suite. I needed to buy several more of those, so I would have one on hand at all times and in all places. One never knew…

The next morning, all the doors between the suites were wide open, and Victor was wandering around in his robe and informal mask as breakfast arrived. He put a laptop down on the table as the servobot set it.

"Are you making the bed?" he asked, slightly incredulous.

"My grandmother had standards. It is not, I repeat, not obsessive-compulsive behavior."

"If it will keep your grandmother's shade from haunting you, by all means, make the bed. You'll shock the maids, however."

"They could stand to be shocked." I tucked in the last corner and arranged the spread.

On reaching the table, I accepted a cup of café au lait from the servobot and took an apricot pastry as the mechanoid helped me to an omelet. "Just out of curiosity, when do you mean to tell Reed Richards he should follow up on what happens to his patents once they leave his hands? It has been three years, after all."

"The sword of Damocles hangs over Richards' head, and he knows it not. I stand by with the shears, and can sever the thread whenever I choose. I've discovered that having that particular power and not using it has a distinct pleasure all its own. The thread can be cut but once, after all. Perhaps on one of my birthdays—or perhaps at our wedding."

"They're invited?" I sipped my coffee.

"Of course. What better way to show them—and the world—how deep and true the amity between us now runs?" he said, virtuously, sounding as fake as a three-dollar bill.

I laughed. "Your congeniality is making Richards feel like he's standing on a fire ant nest. He's sure you're up to something tremendous and he can't figure out what. You just like to watch him squirm. I've just realized why the word congenial is so chilly sounding. It's too close to congeal and congenital. "

"You know me entirely too well. Ought I to send a bomb over to the Baxter Building, to put his mind at ease?"

"No—send a lavish fruit basket. With our compliments. Once he's finished scanning and analyzing it, he'll have reduced it to fruit sauce. Then, when you see him next, you can ask him how they enjoyed it…"

He liked that thought. "What an interesting suggestion. Do you know that I often have to turn off the mask's outside feed when you're near? You seem determined to me laugh at the most inopportune moments."

"Really? I always thought you were completely unmovable. That's why I kept trying to be wittier and wittier, to get some reaction out of you. Shall I stop?"

"Definitely not. I enjoy your comments. I would miss them."

"Ah, I see it all now. You want to same money on a court jester by having me fill two roles…"

In the midst of our pleasantries, he suddenly asked me, "I have a question to put to you. Answer honestly and seriously. Am I paranoid?"

Hoo boy. Was that ever a loaded question! "I think a better question would be, are you inappropriately paranoid? Given the life you lead and the people you must deal with, I think a certain level of paranoia is a sane and healthy response. I think it has to be judged situationally."

He made a thoughtful sound. Then he explained the rage, the sense of betrayal he had felt from the time it was discovered I was missing until I had been able to send him that message from the Toad's computer. He had been sure I ran away from him, without leaving a word, without granting him the dignity of an explanation. But he had a conflicting conviction at the same time, knowing me well enough to be certain that I would never do such a thing.

When he was done, I said, thoughtfully. "You are a man of deep passions—but even at the worst, your rational self was the one in control." It might not always be so, though—something I would do well to remember.

"Not to change the subject, but you put me in mind of the two guards and the driver who Malice killed. I know it isn't rational, but I feel responsible—I am alive, and they…are not."

"They will be buried with every honor, and their families will want for nothing. I would do no less for those who die in my service. If it will ease your mind, you can keep watch over their families—you may find that it will help."

"Thank you. I—"

An aide had knocked at the door to tell me that Susan Storm Richards had called for me. He brought the phone to the table and left me to take the call.

"Good morning!" she said cheerfully. "What are you doing in town?"

"Well—"I realized that she was one of the few people to whom the events of the previous day would sound normal. "I was kidnapped by mutants and taken to the Bermuda Triangle, but Victor rescued me and I'm fine."

"Don't you just hate it when that happens?" she sympathized. "Are you going to be in town long?"

"I have no idea. How long are we going to be in town?" I asked Victor.

"I thought we might leave around this time tomorrow—perhaps a little earlier."

"Just a day." I told Sue.

"Ooooh—that's not much time. Do you think you can come to lunch with me and do some shopping?"

I routed the question through my spouse, and told her I could spend three or four hours with her that afternoon, and we said goodbye.

"What else is on the agenda for today?" I asked Victor.

"Our wedding is a public relations event of rare opportunity, not merely personally, but for Latveria as a whole. It is difficult to make the most of public relations without speaking to the public—or, in this case, the representatives thereof. The media. I am afraid you will be shoved into the spotlight, my dear."

" More like thrown to the wolves...I'm prepared to do what has to be done." I told him, as he summoned the embassy's press secretary.

"You sound as though you were steeling yourself to take a dose of nasty-tasting medicine."

"Aren't I just." I said grimly.

The details were worked out—one print interview that morning, complete with photographer, one television interview late that afternoon. I had no preference when it came to the television show, but for the print interview I insisted on one thing—that the photographer be Peter Parker, the amazing Spider-man. He had done me a good turn once, and I owed him one.

* * *

A/N: Good call, **Madripoor Rose**--Yes, I am a Bujold fan, and that scene from the story provided a jumping off point for me. I thoughther misunderstanding him would be funny, too--and being who he is, he would never explain!

Hello, **Chantrea Savann**! I've always liked Doom myself--he's so complicated!

Thanks, **GothikStrawberry**. I do have fun writing Joviana--like Reed not noticing that his inventions are not being put into production, and Victor not realizing how talking about himself in the third person makes him sound, she, too, is clueless in some important ways.

As for my other readers, um...I DO like feedback, you know.


	20. Chapter 20

There was no time to draw up a list of answers to probable questions, or to make up and rehearse a story; I was going to have to wing it in the interviews. The press secretary was concerned about that, but Victor knew that I had field experience in such matters.

After all, I had shed my old life and self like a snake does its skin when I went to Latveria, so a couple of interviews should not be able to faze me—especially when the first team of reporter and photographer were my own age or younger: Peter Parker and Betty Brant of the Daily Bugle. He was medium everything; medium height, medium build, medium brown hair and eyes. She was pretty, young, and chic, in a New York way—severely and cutely bobbed hair and black clothes. She was almost vibrating with excitement; this was one of her first big assignments.

The secretary performed the introductions, and took an unobtrusive seat to the side as Miss Brant set up her mini recorder and her notebook. Peter Parker did much the same by the window, leaving the reporter and me in possession of the sofa in the embassy's elegant morning room. Before she turned on the machine, she said, "That's a nice suit, and I'm not just saying that. That really is a sharp-looking suit."

"Thank you." I said. Bisitra had made it, and it was a pale apple green. I wore it with a black top and a print scarf. Before going to bed the night before, I had made two calls home to Latveria—the first to my mother, and the second, at Victor's suggestion, to Ulrike, my wardrobe/image assistant. She had packed about half my summer wardrobe up and flown over, just so I would have something to wear that fit right.

I was hesitant about asking her to do that, but Victor, with the casual attitude he took toward servants, had said that she was being paid to serve, and if I happened to be in New York, she had to come where I was.

Besides, at 5' 11", finding clothing off the rack was a problem. The majority of stores don't carry talls for women, and even on garments where the exact length didn't matter, the proportions were subtly wrong. That was why I relied on Bisitra so much—everything she made for me fit, looked good, and nobody snickered at me. Having exactly the right clothes on makes all the difference between my feeling confident and sharp, or feeling like an awkward, brainy freak.

I added, "There isn't any chance that you're going to ask me my opinions about the current war over oil or the mutant question, or the hostilities between Wakanda and the Sudan, is there?"

"Ah—my editor would probably just take them out if I put them in the article. Sorry. What he want are details about your engagement and the upcoming wedding—your dress, and things like that."

"That's quite all right. I was expecting that to be the case. All right—I'm ready."

It is amazing how fascinating a woman becomes once the world finds out that a rich and/or powerful man is interested in sticking his dick in her. That was the only thing that made Monica Lewinsky famous, and got her on televisions and magazine covers all over the world, and that was the only reason why people were interested in me now.

She asked questions and I answered, letting a hint of a Latverian accent color my speech. Of course my natural accent is entirely American, but Joviana Florescu was supposed to be Latverian born and bred. When she asked how Victor and I met, I made up a simple story about how I was educated at the state's expense—meaning, effectively, at his expense, in return for several years of service once I graduated. I had been pointed out to him as a particularly outstanding scholar.

It lacked something, as stories of a couple's first meeting went, but I could hardly tell the truth—just as I couldn't say, "Well, we had sex and then he told me we were married. I decided to hold still for it. That's how we got engaged." so I said that it came about quite naturally, as our conversations kept getting longer and deeper. I can't say I was at my most inspired, but everything I said would hold water.

Near the end of our interview, she commented, "Your English is very good, by the way."

"Thank you. So is yours." I replied, with a wink.

"I deserved that." she said. "You know, you aren't like what I thought you'd be."

There it was again. "What did you think I would be like?"

"Chilly and hard-edged—a real ice princess."

"I'm glad I'm not, then. It sounds most uncomfortable."

"I'm glad, too. So—off the record and just between ourselves—why are you marrying him?" Uh-huh. Like I was going to believe that.

"Because he's the only man in the world for me." I said, smiling.

"That's wonderful. I'm very happy for you."

Then it was time for the photographs. Peter Parker was just as I remembered him, slightly older, but essentially unchanged.

He had gotten his powers when a spider bit him—one that was either genetically engineered or irradiated, I was a little unclear as to which—and gained the proportionate strength, speed, and agility for his size, as well as the ability to cling to walls and ceilings and shoot webs. He was a struggling college student, with an aunt who scraped by on a tiny income, and an uncle who had been murdered by a man Parker could have stopped—thereby giving him the obligatory angst-ridden origin story.

He was also the only superhero I could think of who I could tolerate, because he was utterly unpretentious about it. He wasn't cocky and brash like the Human Torch, stuck in mutant gloom like the X-men, a Batman-wanna-be like Iron Man—he was just a genuinely good and very young man with an untarnished heart who thought having his powers was just the biggest thrill in the world, and who liked to keep people from getting hurt.

"I hope these turn out well." I said, a little nervously. "In most photographs, I look as though I am deeply suspicious of the camera."

"I think these'll turn out great." he said. "You have good bone structure, and an interesting face."

An interesting face. That's what they say when a girl isn't pretty. I tried to be free of my crippling lack of self-esteem about my looks, but I was told, over and over, that I was an ugly girl, odd-looking, or, most painful of all, 'lovely in your own way.' It left scars.

Something of that must have shown in my face, because Parker lowered the camera and said, "Here—have a look."

It was a digital camera, of course, and he let me review the shots. He was a good photographer.

"In some of these, you've made me look like I've got a private joke, or that I'm up to some kind of mischief." I said.

"I didn't do that, I just caught it. It's your eyes and your smile. I mean, why is the Mona Lisa fascinating and beautiful? Because she's mysterious. With most women, you get everything there is to know about them all at once, just in how they look. With you, there's so much to discover."

He wasn't saying it because he had any romantic interest in me, but because he saw my moment of insecurity. He was uncomplicated and sincere and good, as well as being very attractive. His eyes, like his heart, were limpid and pure as a glass of spring water, unsullied by hatred, anger, or vanity. He was a much nicer, much better person than Victor—.

—and if I were to spend any length of time with him, I'd be as bored as if I were stuck on an airplane on the runway that was delayed for take-off, without a book and with a howling baby. Like an apple, Peter Parker was wholesome, tasty and appealing, but it's chocolate that drives the taste-buds insane with delight. Victor was my particular chocolate…

"With a line like that, you missed your calling. You should be doing portrait photography."

"No, no. I like what I do," he said, modestly.

He lagged behind after the interview on purpose. "Ms. Florescu—"(I had not mentioned that I was already Mrs.—Lady—Ms.—whatever Doom.) "I admit I'm curious—and grateful, and flattered, too!—that you asked for me specifically. But why did you?"

"I was wondering if you'd remember." I smiled. "In my first year of service, I was here in New York in early December. One night, just after dark, as I was coming back from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a van stopped right beside me, and the side slid open. There were several men inside, and they pulled me in." It had been horrible—the fear, their eyes, their hands—but mercifully brief.

"The driver stepped on the gas. I might have ended up as another corpse in the East River, but suddenly their van stopped when it hit a street-light. There was webbing clogging up the axels. The next thing I knew, Spider-man had all four of them trussed up for the police, and I was free." I paused, as panic flickered in his eyes. He was wondering if I had guessed, if I had told—and if I had told Victor, which I hadn't.

I was not out to tease or torture him. "You were somewhere near by, with your girlfriend, Mary-Jane. She took me to a coffee-shop and sat with me while you called the police and took some photos. You were both very kind to me when I needed help the most. Maybe I can't show my appreciation to Spider-man, but I wanted to do something for you." I did not specify who the 'both' referred to.

"That was really nice of you." he said warmly, relieved. "Thanks."

"I was glad I could do it." I replied.

Silly boy! As if anyone—that is, anyone who wasn't blinded by superhero mania—couldn't put two and two together when she was rescued by a young man with a light tenor voice, of medium height and build, wearing a particular cologne, and not recognize him ten minutes later when she met him again, just because he happened to be wearing a costume the first time!

That wasn't how I happened to find out, but still…

* * *

A/N: Hiya, **Madripoor Rose**! I'm not sure what Doom's ruling title is either. Nor are the writers of the F4, because some of them refer to him as 'Baron' while others say he is the King of Latveria. As for Germanic vs. Russian, I'm taking elements of both. Like Aral and Cordelia, you say? I wasn't doing that on purpose...All right, I must be sure not to include any severed heads, although Victor might be asdelighted as Aral was, depending on whose head it was...

Hello, **GothikStrawberry!** Wait and see, wait and see--it WILL come out eventually!

**Thornwitch**! Glad you stopped by. Yes, Jovi does tell him, humorously and tactfully, what he needs to hear, you're right, and I was thinking of her in the way you spotted. Good call. I am honored to hear you say the fruitbasket was worthy of Granny Weatherwax. (and I recently got to see/hear Terry and get his latest book signed! Squee!)

Uh-oh...detention! **Chantrea Savann**, I suppose I could try being less funny, if it'll keep you out of trouble--but do you want that?


	21. Chapter 21

In the words of my gal, Tori Amos, I never was a cornflake girl. When I first heard that phrase, 'cornflake girl', I knew immediately what she meant: a wholesome, blond, beautiful, All-American type of girl, the cheerleader, the Queen of the Prom, the most popular girl in school. The kind of girl who would be chosen to advertise cornflakes.

Of course, Tori then goes on to sing about 'Hanging with the raisin girls', and I can't say I was a raisin girl either—the quirky, artistic, alternative- music type who wore droopy black. I was more of a prune girl—less desirable and faintly embarrassing.

Susan Storm Richards was definitely a cornflake girl, the sort of girl on whom it seems the gods had showered all the good things in life.

Oh, well. Maybe this friendship would work, and maybe it wouldn't.

The unobtrusive car in which I was riding, one of the unmarked embassy cars, pulled up in front of the Baxter Building. The driver hastened to open the door for me, only to find I had already gotten out. He settled for seeing me to the door. I went in.

Security around me had changed; I had a new implant in my mastoid, so I could once again be tracked wherever I went, and in various cars around mine, Latverian security forces monitored what was going on around me at one remove. I would seem to be alone, until and unless something happened. I didn't want any other people to become targets on my account.

They didn't follow me into the Baxter, however. I identified myself and took the elevator up to the Fantastic Four's headquarters. The doors opened, and I stepped out to the sound of female laughter. "Joviana, hello!" Sue popped into view. "Come on in and meet everybody!"

I had never been in the Baxter Building before, so my first thought on seeing the area where the Four lived, worked, slept and played was: If Sue had any say in what this place looks like, I'd hate to see what it looked like before. It was first and foremost a laboratory, and a home about seventh or eight on the list, after 'headquarters', 'test chambers', aircraft hanger' and several other things. It seemed very small to me.

Maybe it wasn't fair to make comparisons. Not everybody has a 110-room castle to stretch out in, after all. Sue beckoned me over to the living-room area, where the Richards' son Franklin played on the rug. He was a sturdy pre-schooler with his mother's bright hair and a face very like Reed's. His nanny lurked in the background.

Two women were also there, one on the sofa and the other in a chair that was specially reinforced, obviously Ben's. I recognized them as Sue said, "Of course you know who everybody is, even if you haven't met."

"No, we haven't." I smiled at them, or at least bared my teeth. I really, really wanted to go home now…

"Hi. I'm Jennifer." said the She-Hulk, from her seat in Ben's chair. She was a living Barbie doll—if Barbie had bright green skin and deep green hair and eyes, and if Barbie was about seven feet tall, that is. She wore a magenta suit—for maximum contrast, I supposed—with a white blouse that was cut all the way down to the point where it was clear she wasn't wearing a bra. Maybe she was taped into place, but she was Oh-my-Gawd-how-does-she-manage-to-stand-upright busty. Damn. It wasn't fair…

But it was the other woman who made me truly uncomfortable, because it was the Wasp, whose real name was Janet Van Dyne, and as she sprang up from her seat, I could only pray she didn't recognize me, and wouldn't recognize me. Because I knew her. We had been girls together.

She was rich, the Van Dyne heiress, and I wasn't, but in the summer, when she was staying at the lake with her parents in one of their vacation homes, it didn't matter the way it would have during the school year, and from the time that I was seven, and she ten, until I was thirteen and she was sixteen, we hung out together.

That was when my mother was still married to her husband, my stepfather, until he decided he couldn't take any more. He was well-off enough to afford a summer house near the lake, but not on it. His daughter, my stepsister, was almost thirteen the first year—too young to hang out with babies. She was always with her friends, and Janet and I were inseparable.

Janet was isolated too; her mother, a dyed-in-the-wool snob, insisted on meeting any prospective friend to see if she was fit to associate with her child. Thanks to my grandmother, my manners passed muster and my reading had given me an impressive vocabulary, so I was permitted to play with the scion of old-money that was Janet Van Dyne.

I could count the number of friends I had while growing up on the fingers of one hand, but Janet was one of them. We went swimming, we played in the woods, we went to the playground and swung on swings. On rainy days we baked cookies and made friendship bracelets. Six years—six summers—and then my stepfather left, and there were no more summers at the lake.

The adult Janet, superhero, socialite, heiress and high-fashion designer, who made Paris Hilton bristle with envy, circled me, looking me up and down as she did so, with an appraising eye. "I have just got to get some designs on you. With your height, you were just made to show off clothes. What you've got on right now is—all right, but I can do much better by you."

"I—I'm..." I stammered. I don't like being given the hard sell. Still, she hadn't recognized me. Perhaps the veil of willful stupidity that protected the identities of costumed adventurers also covered me—and wasn't that an appalling thought! I was out to stop that kind of thing.

"I think she likes her own dressmaker, Janet, don't crowd her. This is Janet, by the way. Joviana, after I came home the other day, I realized how much I'd missed spending time with my friends, so I called them up and invited them along today. I hope that's okay with you." Sue explained.

"Of course," I said, with more warmth than I felt. Going shopping with the Gorgeous Green Giantess and the one person in the entire costumed adventuring community who could identify me—what fun! "Where are we going? I have great trouble buying garments off the rack because of my height." I let the Latverian accent make another appearance. I felt the need for concealment.

Jennifer laughed as she unfolded herself from Ben's chair. "There is absolutely nothing you can tell me about having trouble buying clothes off the rack."

"Looking at you, I can see that must be true." I said, looking up at another woman for the first time in my adult life. I felt—short. I didn't like it.

"Anyway, with what we'll be shopping for, it won't matter." said Sue. "Come on, time's a wasting!" She grabbed her purse as we made for the elevator.

"And what is that?" I asked as the doors closed.

"Well, you're getting married, aren't you? You need lingerie!"

"By the way," Sue said, as the four of us settled comfortably into the embassy car. "Do you happen to know anything about a fruit basket that arrived from Dean and Deluca about an hour ago? The card said it was from the two of you—you and Victor."

"Yes, it was my idea. I didn't think it would arrive so quickly, though."

"Oh, we practically live on top of the nearest D and D. Umm, I wish I'd known it was coming."

"Why? Was there something wrong with it?" I asked.

"No, nothing—or at least I don't think so. The moment he saw who it was from, Reed freaked, and pounced on it."

"He likes fresh fruit that much?" I did not smile, I did not laugh, my face was perfectly composed…

"Not exactly. He threw it into a chamber he uses for things that might explode, and started testing it for hazardous substances. He's still busy with it"

"But why?" I asked innocently.

"Well, you know the score. It may be a while before Reed can accept that Victor really meant what he said the other day."

"Right—once he's safely dead." snorted the She-Hulk.

"Jen!" scolded the Invisible Woman, and continued. "I called Dean and Deluca, and they said the order was phoned in, and the basket never left their hands until it was delivered here, and it never went anywhere near the Latverian Embassy, but Reed just—I'm sure Victor must be the same way about some things. Anyway, you couldn't have known. I'm sorry."

"No, I should be apologizing to you."

"Let's call it even, then." interjected the Wasp, leaning forward. She was beautiful, petite, brunette. "Now, you've got to tell us, because I'm just dying to know—how did you and Doom meet?"

I had thought about that ever since the interview. We definitely needed a better 'how we met' story than the one I had given the Daily Bugle. "As adults, or when I was a child?" I queried.

"You knew him when you were growing up?" Sue asked.

"Know him, no. But I met him then…

"You know that Victor is somewhat older than I am—but then Reed is somewhat older than you. My mother mentioned how I had leukemia. It was acute lymphoblastic leukemia, the most treatable kind, but at that time, Latveria was very poor and very backward, still recovering from the Soviets and the Ceausescus. The Haasens were in power, and they spent nothing on health care. Even then, Victor was doing what he could for our country, sending money, medicines, and other aid. When he visited Latveria, he would sometimes make visits to the hospitals. All the doctors were anxious to get his attention, his help—they listened to him as they did to no other.

"I was in a hospital he visited, when I was eleven. I was very ill—if I had a photo from then, you would see how my eyes had sunk in, how my arms and legs were like sticks. The doctors weren't always tactful. They said things in front of me that they should not have said, about my condition, and my prognosis, which wasn't very good…"

I had an utterly rapt audience. They were so absorbed they were hardly even breathing.

"On the day he visited, they took him through the pediatric ward. It was an awful place—a long room, with two rows of single beds. Everything was left over from World War Two, except what Victor had provided." All those details were true. I had done my homework, back when I was learning the details of 'my' life.

"The doctors led him down the aisle, telling him about each case in turn. When they came to me, they told him about my case, and what my treatment was, and that I was not expected to live much longer. One of the doctors said, 'It's a shame, because she's such a bright child.'

"Victor asked, 'How bright?' and he looked at me—truly looked at me. 'You've been following every word, haven't you?'

"I said, 'Yes.'

"Then he gave the doctors a lecture on saying things like that in front of a patient of any age, telling them they were destroying the will to live when they did so. He told them their treatments were out-of-date and ineffectual, and that he would see to it they got the medicines and the equipment. Then he told me that with the proper treatments, the survival rate for childhood leukemia was very high almost 90 percent, and that once I was an adult, it would almost be as if I never had cancer at all.

"He kept his word. He sent the help. And I am alive today." It was none of it true—in my case— but there were many Latverians for whom it was true.

My three companions had very thoughtful expressions on their faces.

"And you never forgot." Sue said, very softly.

"Would you?" I countered.

"That explains a lot." said Jennifer, tapping her green chin.

"Yes." agreed Janet. "I understand how you must see him."

"Is it the sort of thing I should tell to the media, though? I'm not sure about sharing that."

"Oh, definitely!"

"Yes!"

"They'll eat it up with a spoon!"

The intercom crackled, and the driver said, "My lady, this is the first address I was given."

TBC….

* * *

A/N: I did the shout-outs--then a storm knocked out the net connection. I'm going to post before it goes again. I virtual hug **GothikStrawberry, Chantrea Savann, Thornwitch, and Madripoor Rose!** Thank you. 


	22. Chapter 22

I went a little crazy. I had been saving up to spend a month in Italy, so I had enough to pay Bisitra for my wedding clothes and for this little spree as well. Victor was not going to pay for my trousseau; I was determined he should not. The bride's family traditionally pays for the wedding—he had preempted that, and there was nothing I could do about it, but my self respect demanded I pay for my own clothes. And I did…

We didn't visit any Fredrick's of Hollywood stores, with its synthetic fabrics and its sleazy, tawdry garments, or even any Victoria's Secrets. We went to the 'if you have to ask you can't afford it' shops, and I began to learn the names of makers like La Perla, Spoylt, Aubade, Chantelle, Felina, Natori, Damaris, State of Undress, and more.

I tried on, and subsequently bought, in bras, demis, balconettes, plunges, long-lines, strapless, backless, underwires and soft cups. No padded ones—nothing with built in pillows. I believe in truth in advertising. I bought panties—tangas, bikinis, high-cuts—even a few thongs (which I don't care for as a rule, but these weren't for wearing all day). I bought them in every shade from white to black and back again, except for pale orchid. When I wear pale orchid people ask me if I'm feeling all right, it makes me look that bad.

Nor did I buy only with Victor in mind, although he was never far from my thoughts. I decided to improve my entire underwear wardrobe. The castle staff was not going to be able to sneer at my underpants now…

With that in mind, we stopped at a shop known for their bra collection and for the customer service they provided in giving their client the best fit possible. I was led off to a dressing room by two middle-aged to going on elderly women, who asked me to disrobe to the skin from the waist up. One of them wrapped a tape measure around my chest, and said "36!"

Then the other reached out and clapped both her hands on my breasts. She handled them as impersonally asif she were shopping for fruit in the supermarket. "A-cup." I was too surprised to say a thing.

Her fellow fitter disagreed. "B-cup."

"No, A-cup. You check."

The measuring tape woman then manually tested my avocados—no, wait, wrong color. That was Jen. Peaches. White peaches. "On the cusp." she said. "Fetch both cup sizes."

The last statement was directed to an assistant, who scurried off to find me some bras. The ladies then went to the next dressing room, where shortly later, I heard, "48!", followed by 'G-cup!" and Jen's voice, protesting, "Hey! That's getting a bit personal!"

"I think they must do that to everybody." I called to her. "Tell me what the down side is to being built like you—do you get backaches? Something? It'll make me feel better for looking like a boy in comparison."

"Nope, no backaches. It's one of the advantages to having super-strength. But—grab a robe and come here a minute, before they get back."

I did, but I thought I had the wrong dressing room. "Oh—I beg your pardon. I thought this was my friend's dressing room," I apologized to the stranger who stood there, a too-large robe wrapped around her body.

"No—it's me. This is who Jennifer Walters is, when I'm not the She-Hulk." I knew her voice, even if it sounded different, coming from a much smaller chest. She was about 5' 4" tall, with mousy-dishwater hair and eyes. There was absolutely nothing memorable or distinguished about her—except that she had intelligent eyes.

"Truly?" I asked.

"Yes. Some difference, huh? I'm not like you and Sue and Janet. Men don't get whiplash turning to look at me. That's why I stay the She-Hulk most of the time—people notice me when I'm big and green."

"I understand, but men don't look at me. Except once in a while."

"Are you kidding me? You just must not be noticing. Wait, let me big myself back up."

Watching her transform was interesting. "I remember having a doll from America that did that when you spun her arm. Growing up—leaper? No, Skipper. 'Growing-up Skipper.'"

"I think this is interesting." she said. "What do you want to bet Sue and Janet both have screwed-up self images too?"

"Why would they? They're both lovely as the dawn."

"Because our culture does this to women. Ah, here are my tit-holsters…" The assistants were returning, with bra straps dangling from their hands.

I bought night wear as well. Short, cute nighties—long flowing nightgowns, the occasional pair of pajamas, robes. I bought one robe of crocheted mohair lace that was so beautiful I could have worn it over a silk slip and called it a dress.

In one store, which had items for men, I bought a luxurious robe for Victor, steel grey silk, with a quilted cashmere lining. Winter nights in Latveria, are intense and long, after all. I was looking forward to winter with him. I was looking forward to everything with him.

I also planned to get him more than that for a wedding present, but I wasn't sure what. I did not buy him any underwear. I had no idea what he would like, and it's such an individual thing. What might he have on under the armor? That was something to puzzle over. I resolved to ask at the first opportunity.

Where they sold sleepwear they also sold sleep masks, and there I went to town. Many lingerie lines sold matching masks, and of course I had to get those. Spoylt had them in fuchsia and lime to match their robes, the outside of the mask studded with crystals, but they were no use to me, because they tied on—very unreliable. I needed ones that would stay on. I got ones that came in a little case for travel. I got embroidered ones and hand painted and one that had dried lavender quilted into it for aromatherapy. I got some in terrycloth for relaxing in the bath. I was not going to be caught lacking again.

Another item that Spoylt made were restraints—but pretty ones. They were made like a pair of fingerless gloves that laced up the sides, like a corset, and they were joined by a crystal-studded chain. I got two pair of them, in black and in ivory. They didn't look terribly strong, but the whole idea was more symbolic than anything else. I tried to hide those from my shopping companions, but—it was inevitable—one pair fell at exactly the wrong moment.

"What are these?" asked Jen as she bent to pick them up. "Oh," she said, blankly, as she realized what they were. "This tells me way more than I want to know about you and him and your sex life."

Sue caught my eye and smiled wryly. "Jen, you've never been married, so you don't know this—and don't tell me that experience while dating counts, because marriage is different—but a bit of kink can be very good for a permanent relationship. It helps keep the spark alive."

"And that tells me way more than I want to know about you and Reed." Jen returned. "People think it's the single women who have the wild lives…"

I hardly paid attention to the She-Hulk. I had just realized in my gut, that when the Sword of Damocles—more like the Sword of Doom—fell on Reed Richards, it wouldn't only cut him. It would devastate Sue, their marriage and the happy, stable life of their little boy. I had forgiven Sue for being so blonde and beautiful and sweet, for being such a cornflake girl.

When the sword fell—when the truth about the patents was revealed, and I was sure it would, eventually—I was going to feel horrible.

I was beginning to feel bad already, in anticipation.

What could I do about it? I couldn't stop it. It would be like trying to stop gravity. Nor could I tell Victor I didn't want him to tell Reed what was going on. On that point alone, I knew he would be unmoved. I knew he would not understand.

There were really only two words that could sum up my feelings.

'Oh, shit.'

A/N: Hello, **Chantrea Savann**! Dean and Deluca is a well-known gourmet food shop with several locations in New York and Washington, DC. They are known for having the best of the best from all over the world. I got my information about leukemia from the internet, as I get a lot of the details for this fic--and others. What a great resource it is!

Hiya, **Julietsdaughter!** I've missed you--don't be such a stranger!

**Gothikstrawberry:** Well, the shoe has yet to drop on Jovi's identity. Wait for it...


	23. Chapter 23

After shopping, we went to lunch at Edamame, an Asian-fusion restaurant, where we had a small private room to ourselves, and sat on the floor among cushions on tatami mats. The mats smelled like a summer meadow.

The conversation had ranged from a discussion of how all women feel insecure about their looks,--Sue thought she looked too generic, too bland, and Janet said she was very happy with how she looked, and she ought to be, considering what she had paid for her nose—which, to my eyes, wasn't all that different. She did say she wished she were taller, which every one agreed counted.

I told them about the day before, which elicited a lot of clapping and whistling as I told them the more dramatic parts. Janet fell over on the cushions, whooping with laughter, when I told them about kneeing Mastermind in the groin.

When I came to the part where Magneto told me how Victor had rescued me before he even got there, all three of them quieted down.

"It's not that it's unlike Victor," said Sue, thoughtfully. "Remember the time he took over the world for about six months? You were involved in ending that, Janet. He did it completely non-violently, with mind-control, using the powers of the Purple Man, amplified to cover the whole planet. Once he had control of the world, he did for it what he does for Latveria.

"He ended the war—he ended all the wars. He put an end to crime and eliminated poverty. He did away with prejudice. Of course it was all done through mind-control, but still, I would have expected him to abuse that kind of power, but he didn't. He left us completely alone, too."

"That was while I was getting my master's degree. I wasn't anywhere near what was going on. I just remember that all of it was very quiet." I said.

"Yes." agreed Jen.

"I can tell you why he didn't pursue his revenge against you and your family, though, if you were wondering." I told Sue.

"Can you? Okay. Tell."

"Two reasons. One—you would have been unable to fight him while under mind control. There is no honor in defeating an enemy who can't fight back."

"I can see that." nodded Sue. "What's the other?"

"It wouldn't have been any fun, either."

"Wouldn't have been any—Victor is completely lacking in any sense of fun! I dare you to try and tell me he does."

I could have argued the point, but I didn't. That side of Victor, the man who could relax and become playful when we were alone together—I valued that aspect of our relationship too much to spill it over lunch to anyone, let alone friends as new as these. "Well, say that it would have been unsporting, then. I think the American expression is 'like shooting ducks in a barrel.'"

"I don't know…" Sue hesitated.

Janet took over. "How is it that Latveria can afford to buy up all of Genosha's debts? That sounds like it would take some serious money."

I explained briefly about the weather platforms. They weren't a secret—neither was the Latverian 'greenergy' revolution that was spreading over Europe. (The word 'greenergy' came from green, or environmentally friendly, energy.) But neither the weather platforms nor our greenergy developments had received much press in America—small wonder. Richards' powerful sponsor, Winfield-Merton had a high-level connection to two of the big media conglomerates.

"Weather platforms?" Sue's brow furrowed in thought. "Yes, I remember. I just didn't realize how widely they were being used. How are they powered?"

That gave me an opportunity to tell her about greenergy. If she went home and talked to Reed, it might get him off his ass and start him thinking. If he started thinking, he might realize what wasn't going on with his patents, and the sword would fall without Victor's help. I wasn't telling her anything that was not freely available knowledge.

"I just remembered," Janet said. "When I went to an outdoor concert in Paris a few weeks ago, there was a weather surcharge on the ticket printout."

I nodded. "There would have been an acknowledgement in the program and on the posters. 'Optimal weather provided by Latverian Weather Systems'. It isn't widely advertised because there is no competition."

"What do you do if it rains anyway?" asked Jen.

"There's insurance to cover that. It hasn't happened yet, but there is a rider clause in all contracts in case of Thor, Storm or other costumed adventurers with weather-related powers causing any changes to the scheduled weather pattern."

Janet laughed. "But not against Acts of God?"

"Acts of God we can handle. Acts of Heroes are another story. Natural weather patterns aren't hard to track these days, but heroes are unpredictable."

"So that's how you can afford to bail out Genosha." Janet concluded.

"I suspect it also paid for this." I showed off my ring, something I had seen done in movies—an engaged girl displaying her ring to a circle of admiring friends— but never imagined I would do someday.

"Love the color." winked Jen.

"That's a very nice rock you have there." said Janet, "and believe me, I know."

"It's lovely, and I think it suits you." Sue added. "Now, I would like to propose a toast. To Joviana and Victor. I hope you will be very happy together."

"I don't suppose we could drink to her and leave him out of it, could we? Just kidding!" Jen hid behind her hand as I gave her a hurt look. "To Joviana and Victor."

Janet repeated it. "To Joviana and Victor." They drank.

"Thank you." I said. "Thank you so much."

"Well, you're welcome." Sue told me. "I'm glad Victor has found someone who believes in him like you do." That drove another nail of guilt into me. "And now…we couldn't let you get married without a little something from us. Don't get embarrassed, it's nothing big."

Each of them fished something out of the shopping bags they had brought along. Jen and Sue both had packages, Janet a long, shiny envelope. "Save mine for last." advised Sue.

Jen's package had a white sleep set, a simple cotton T-shirt and shorts. On the shirt, it said, 'The Bride' in swirly gold lettering. Janet's was a gift certificate for a 'Day on Venus', which was a package of services at a luxurious day spa, including a promised massage with rose-scented oils and a facial.

Sue's was the most personalized, though, because in it there was a bikini, a white bikini with 'Mrs. Doom' spelled out across the backside in rhinestones. "What do you think?" she asked, while I gaped. "I had it done while you were in the dressing room at Stylene's. They did it right then."

"I love it—I love them all." I said. I wanted to burst into tears immediately. "If this is how you treat a new friend, I don't know what you do for old ones, but I don't deserve it."

"Of course you do." said Sue. "Victor—in a weird way he's like part of the family. He's even been a member of the Fantastic Four now and then. And—I think you're good for him. But you missed part of mine in the tissue paper."

I hunted around and found something else—a refrigerator magnet, with a vintage picture of a woman looking seductively into the camera. There was a sentence printed on it, looking like words cut from a page. It said 'She had not yet decided whether to use her powers for good—or for evil.' I started laughing helplessly. "It's marvelous, I adore it! You know what? I'll use it to stick notes on Victor of things I want him to remember!"

Okay, so his armor was demagnetized, and it wouldn't stick. It was still a very funny line, and it had my three friends laughing until their ribs hurt.

A/N: Thanks, **Emmy**--Johnny will be putting in another appearance in a couple of chapters.

Hi, **Gothikstrawberry**! It wouldn't be the revelation so much that would hurt Sue and Reed's marriage, it would be the fight that would follow--the fight to either get Reed's patents back or to force them into production, which would be long, hard, and expensive--big stresses on any marriage. And yes, the revelation of Joviana's true identity would change a lot if it comes out--I'm not committing myself on this one one way or another.

**The next chapter will reveal why and when Joviana first concieved her dislike for superheroism!**


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Finally— the story of when and why Joviana first conceived her dislike of super heroism.

* * *

It was in the car on the way back that it happened: Janet narrowed her eyes, looked at me searchingly and said, "You know, I've been trying to think of who it is you've been reminding me of, and I've finally remembered. There was this girl I knew, who I hung out with during the summer for several years. It isn't so much that you look like her—although you have similar coloring—it's your sense of humor. You remind me of how she used to be—God, I haven't thought about her in ages."

Fortunately my career as a professional minion had prepared me for that. I assumed an open, politely interested expression, and listened like mad underneath it.

"One of those people you just drop out of touch with?" sympathized Jen. "That's happened to me a lot since I became the She-Hulk."

"No—just out-grew. I saw her a few years ago, and I hardly recognized her—but she recognized me." Janet gave a laugh. "It was one of those battles that goes all over the place, and we—the Avengers—wound up fighting it out with the X-Men. You know how it is. We would up in this supermarket parking lot, and Hank—my ex-husband" she explained. "picked up this car and threw it at Colossus, and both the car and the man wound up sailing through the market's front window. As it turned out, my friend worked there—as a cashier! Worse luck, it was her car. She recognized me—this was before I came out of the hero closet—and to get her to keep quiet about my identity, I met her for lunch the next day, and paid her for her car. She didn't have superhero insurance."

That was correct, as far as it went. Superhero insurance is mandatory in major urban areas, but in my part of Pennsylvania, it was optional.

Janet continued. "It was terrible to see the person she'd become. She was overweight—dressed in these horrible Wal-Mart clearance rack clothes—and worst of all, dull. It was depressing. The oddest part, though, was that she disappeared not long after that. Without a trace. It's one of those things that happens now and then. She graduated college, got a little money together, and went off to see America. No one has ever found out what happened to her."

"Did you not investigate?" I inquired. "Is that not the done thing, among superheroes?"

"No." said Janet, briefly. "Believe me, the last thing she would have wanted would be for me to go around acting like a superhero on account of her. Although…"

At least that part of what I said over lunch when she paid me for my car that day had sunk in. She really hadn't liked what I said to her then.

"Although what?" I probed. "Don't leave us hanging."

"She had this psychotic mother. That's not an exaggeration, either. One of the things she used to do was leave the bathroom door open when she was using it—and I mean during everything. I won't go into further detail. I genuinely think that woman was mentally ill, dangerously so. I've sometimes thought she had something to do with her daughter's disappearance."

"You mean—murdered her?" asked Sue.

"Maybe. But nothing was ever discovered. I don't think she was ever seriously suspected. She was a very clever actress, very good at acting normal."

I didn't like to hear that, but then I never liked to hear about any of the ways I resembled my birth mother.

"You can drop me here. I've just spotted somebody I know." said Jen. I informed the driver, and he pulled over.

Jen called "Hey, Matt!"

I saw a red-haired man with dark glasses and a cane, the red-tipped cane of the blind, turn his face in her direction. I know who most of the costumed adventurers are. I know their secret identities. I knew who he was: Matt Murdock. Like Jen, he was a lawyer, and also, like Jen, a superhero—Daredevil. The blindness wasn't an act. His other senses, augmented by exposure to radioactivity, were amplified to the point where they were super-powers.

"Jennifer?" he queried.

"Yes!" She got her purchases together and got out of the embassy car.

"If you can drop me over on Park Avenue, by the Guggenheim, that would be great." said Janet. "I have an appointment to arrange the use of their building to debut my next collection."

As she got out, bags in hand, she suddenly leaned over and said, "I know it seems impossible to you now, but if it goes bad—your marriage, I mean—if he abuses you, verbally or physically, you have friends you can call on. I hope it doesn't happen to you—but it did to me."

That was another thing I knew. Her ex-husband had first hit her with words, and then with his hand. "Thank you, Janet." Because of that friend-like concern for my well-being, I forgave her for what she had said of the old me.

Like most of the world, I used to be dazzled by superheroes. I was as willfully stupid about them as everybody else. Then, as Janet had said, one day the costumed adventurer Goliath threw my car through the front window of my workplace, and suddenly they weren't glamorous any more.

I remember the sound of glass breaking, of fiberglass and metal impacting with the bank of checkout lines at the front of the store. I know that people must have been screaming, but my world had altered somehow, as I thought 'That's my car.'

It and the X-man Colossus came to a rest in a 6-foot high pyramid of store-brand sodas, which burst open and sprayed warm sticky fizz everywhere. I remember the sound of the soda hissing and dripping. One can rolled away from the massacre of its fellows and came to a stop by my foot. My cash register had been demolished. It wasn't there any more. The car—my car—had removed it in its passing, not three feet in front of me.

If I had been standing up close to it, I would have been killed.

I remember the noise made by the bits of glass that tinkled as they broke and fell. I do not remember any sound made by a human being. The world had gotten very remote and far-away. My face tingled as if I had been out in the cold for a long time, and had only just gone inside.

I was slipping into clinical shock, that was what was happening. I sat down on the floor quite abruptly.

I don't know how much time passed—shock will do that to you—but I was called back to the land of the living when I heard a voice I knew.

I scrambled to my feet to see the Wasp, Thor, and Goliath talking to a police officer, apologizing for the mess. The fog of shock burned away as I recognized her profile, despite the mask she was wearing, despite the costume.

"Janet?" I asked, stupidly.

Her head snapped around on her neck as she turned to look at me. "Are you missing somebody named Janet?" she temporized, walking over to me.

I had to admire the way she said, "Some people are out in the parking lot. Your Janet is probably there. Are you hurt anywhere? Can you walk?" She slipped her arm around me, as if to hold me up. "Not now! Not here!" she hissed, under her voice.

"That's my car." I moaned. "What am I going to do? I can't afford another one, and I don't have superhero insurance!"

"I'll buy you another one, only don't let on you know who I am! I'll meet you in Sycamore Park tomorrow, at noon, okay?" She 'helped' me out of the wreckage of the store to an ambulance outside, where she turned me over to the paramedics. They were efficient people who determined that there was nothing wrong with me that a cup of strong, sweet tea wouldn't fix.

After I rested a while, I took a bus home.

The next day, at noon, I met Janet by the main entrance to Sycamore Park, a place where we had often gone during our shared summers.

"Does the Ritz still make good hamburgers?" she asked, so we bought lunch from the same old place we used to go, taking our paper sacks with us down the twisting path that led to the duck pond.

It was spring, and there were fuzzy little yellow and brown mallard ducklings following their mothers, and bigger grey Canadian goose goslings nibbling grass as their parents kept guard, hissing at any human that came too close to their babies. We sat on a bench under an enormous weeping willow tree, whose green and silver switches brushed the top of my head.

"First of all, I want to say I'm sorry for what happened yesterday. We try to avoid populated areas when we can."

"When and how did you become a part of this 'we'?" I asked, without preamble. "I thought you wanted to become a fashion magazine editor, not a superhero." I had not been able to sleep the night before. I kept seeing my car fly through the air three feet in front of me. At least I hadn't had to get up for work that morning. The store was closed for repairs.

"I did, but this is more important."

"More important." I repeated. I wasn't hungry. I tore bits of bread off of my bun and crumbled them on the ground in front of me—soon I had a small crowd of ducks, geese, and one hopeful squirrel competing for the fragments.

"Yes. Do I have your word that you won't reveal my identity to anyone? And that you won't repeat what I might tell you today?"

"Sure." I said, glumly.

"You know that my father passed away? It wasn't a natural death. It was murder, and his killer was someone the law couldn't touch…"

She explained how her father, the scientist Vernon Van Dyne, had been killed by a creature from the planet Kosmos, and how, in her grief, she had sworn to avenge his death. She went to a colleague of his, a Doctor Henry Pym, and told him all about it.

I got the distinct impression that she had already had a crush on 'Hank' before that, so going to him was as much to advance a personal agenda as it was for her father.

Doctor Pym had a answer for her. He had come up with this special serum that would make her shrink down to the size of an insect, although she would retain the strength she had as a human. She might gain other powers, too. There was a second serum that would restore her to normal.

"Right." I said at that point in the story. "What was in that serum, anyway?"

"Pym particles." she said, self-importantly.

"And what are they? How does it work? Did he test this stuff first? How many clinical trials did it go through? What's the toxicity rating on it? Is it carcinogenic?"

I fired questions at her, one after another, until she put her hands over her ears and wailed, "I don't know, I don't know!"

She took it, on only his say-so that it was safe. She gained the ability to shrink, she grew little tiny fairy wings, and gained the ability to fire electrical stings from her hands. Thus the Wasp was born.

She told me more—about the adventures, about forming the hero team of the Avengers, and about how she and Hank got married, which she called 'the most romantic thing imaginable.'

He went temporarily insane, devised a new, villainous identity for himself, the Yellowjacket—which he truly believed in—kidnapped Janet, told her he had killed Hank Pym, out of love for her, and proposed marriage to her.

I would have thought that evidence of mental illness on that scale would have put her off, but no. She agreed, knowing full well who he really was, and they were married, after which he came back to himself. They decided to stay married.

"So you don't have a pre-nup to protect you if you should split up." I said. "With your kind of money, you need one."

"Well—no. But it doesn't matter, as we'll never break up. There won't be any divorce."

"Janet—I've been listening to you, and all I can say is that—I don't think I've ever heard any thing so stupid!"

She froze. "How much did your car cost?" she asked, pulling her checkbook out of her purse. "Never mind, I'll just make it ten thousand." She wrote furiously.

"Janet, I'm sorry, but—if you could only hear yourself. You took those substances, not knowing what the long term effects might be, you go around doing nothing but fighting people—and I thought the X-Men were supposed to be the good guys, like the Avengers. What were you doing fighting them? And now the place where I work is half-destroyed, and—."

She handed me the check. "I can see that you don't understand what it is we do, and how important it is." she said, the chill of January in her voice. "But of all the people I know, remembering what you were like growing up, how you always made up the best adventures—I would have thought you would have known in your heart—Never mind."

She got up and walked away from me, very quickly. As she came to the bend in the path, I saw her hand brush across her eyes, as if she wiped away tears.

I looked at the check. I had never had such a large check made out in my name before. I would have liked to rip it up, as a statement to myself and to Janet, but I couldn't afford to.

I wanted to believe in what Janet believed in. I wanted to believe that superheroes were necessary, that what they did was good, and right. I wanted to believe they were needed, to save the world, to protect the weak, to bring truth and justice and apple pie to America and the world.

But it sounded stupid to me. I couldn't get around that.

My smart and pretty friend had taken potentially dangerous substances, without any knowledge of their potential long-term effects, put on a costume, and now went around acting as if she were a human stun gun. She had no other occupation. She had left college and married a man who had a history of serious instability. She did so without securing her money in the case of a break-up. He could claim half of everything if they did. That was stupid.

Superheroes committed crimes in the name of preventing them. They beat people up, often brutally. That would get a cop not only fired, but put on trial, if not convicted. They damaged billions of dollars of property every year. Any ordinary person who did that would face jail time and get sued so badly they'd have to sell their own blood to feed themselves. And they got away with it.

If they wanted to do something for the world, why didn't they fight hunger in Africa, or spend their time in areas of high crime working with at-risk kids so they didn't become criminals, rather than beating them up once they did?

Why were they so idolized? Why were there TV shows reporting on what they did, and where, and to who? Why were there magazines dedicated to them, web-sites, fan clubs?

Why were they even tolerated?

Was I the only person who saw something wrong with the whole thing?

----------------------

A/N: Next chapter—back to Victor, after a stop at the Baxter Building, where Joviana will learn Ben Grimm's opinion of pineapple—and why Sue thinks it is especially important that Jovi and Victor have a good relationship.

Thank you to GothikStrawberry, tiktok, Chantrea Savann, and Madripoor Rose! Big virtual hug!


	25. Chapter 25

Arriving back at the embassy, I allowed the driver to open the car door for me, and went in, leaving most of my bags in the car for someone else to deal with. The driver himself had tactfully suggested it. I still had a lot to learn about having servants.

I asked at the desk as to where Victor was. The receptionist told me he was in his office—the same office where we had first met, three years before. I thanked him and went down the now-familiar hallways, with a great deal more confidence than I had the very first time I walked those halls.

I had a head full of thoughts. I had drunk a lot of tea with lunch, and by the time we reached the Baxter once more, I was…quite uncomfortable already, and if I waited until I got back to the embassy, I would be in distress. So I asked Sue if I could come upstairs and use her bathroom. Kind soul that she is, she said yes, and I rode up to the Fantastic Four's living quarters for the second time that day.

When we got off the elevator, we heard Reed and Ben debating over the safety, or lack thereof, of the fruit basket. Reed was still testing the fruit—evidently Victor had sent the largest basket possible—and the resulting conversation was something I had to share with him as soon as I could. He would appreciate it.

Reed had cried out, frantically, "No—don't touch that! I haven't tested it yet!"

"Reed, I know they may call a grenade a pineapple, but I got a hunch this pineapple is just a pineapple." Ben's voice rumbled. I heard a loud chomp, and the sound of chewing.

"Is he going to turn into a big pile of gravel if he explodes?" wondered Johnny.

A loud swallowing noise followed. "See, there wasn't nothing wrong with that! It was perfect. Sweet and juicy. You really think Victor's gonna put his card on a bomb and send it up here?"

"Down the hall, second door on the right," said Sue, apologetically, pointing to the bathroom.

I used the lavatory, and, not wanting to sneak out without saying goodbye, which would have been very rude of me, I went in search of Sue. Hearing her voice coming from a room down the hall, I walked toward it—only to hear, or rather, to overhear her say, "I wish you'd just tell me why you're still saying she shouldn't marry him."

I stopped dead in my tracks. I had to hear this.

"I can't tell you that." said Reed, stuffily. "Why are you so insistent that she should marry him, anyway? Is this some sort of female wedding-obsession thing?"

"Oh, Reed, if you could only hear yourself." his wife groaned. "If you had any clue at all about how people think and feel, you'd see this was the best thing to happen in years."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"You never do. She adores him. She loves him as he is, megalomania, armor, mask, massive ego and all—but not blindly. She has a sense of perspective about him. She even made a joke about his armor! She's smart and funny and nice and she wants to marry him anyway."

"I still don't—." Reed started.

"If they get married and maybe even have a family, and he's happy, then you won't have ruined his life, don't you see? That's what he blames you for…He has more power than he did before, the money's coming in hand over fist for him, so all that's left is his personal life—and now there's Joviana. How can such an intelligent man be so dumb? You should be trying to encourage this match, not get her to break up with him. Or else he'll start thinking you're trying to ruin his life again, by driving off the one woman who loves him for himself!"

This was not a good moment to intrude. I silently tip-toed back down the hall, noisily opened and closed the bathroom door, and called out, "Sue? I don't want to leave without saying goodbye!"

She came from the room where they had been arguing. Johnny popped out of a room in the opposite direction. "Hi." he said, and gave me the look, his eyes half-closed, of a very young man who imagines he is irresistibly attractive, and brilliant in bed to boot. Never mind that I wasn't that experienced—I knew what that look meant.

"I had a very good time," I said to Sue. "Thank you for introducing me to your friends. I'd love to do this again some time."

"Give me a call any time you're in New York." she promised. "You have that spa certificate from Janet. Next time, perhaps we should go there and make a day of it."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea." I agreed. "Bye."

"Bye." She surprised me by stepping forward and giving me a brief hug, which I returned.

"I'll ride down with you." offered Johnny. "I was just going out."

When the doors were closed, he scratched his chin and asked me, "So, is this going to be one of those marriages in name only, or what?"

I laughed. Was my ass that nice? "Why? Are you offering to be my 'backdoor' man?"

"Your—? Oh! No, I was just curious, with the armor and all—Does he ever, uh, take it off?"

"Yes."

"Good—that's very good. From a personal hygiene standpoint."

Now I remembered why I didn't like most men my age. They were sadly lacking in intelligent conversation.

"I have to agree with you." I said.

"See, I think what you're doing is almost like doing public service. That is, in getting him laid. I figure that's why he's been in such a bad mood. I know if I couldn't get any for several years, I'd want to kill people too—."

"Mr. Storm, I don't know whether I want to laugh at you or hit you. Drop this now, or I'll tell Victor and your sister on you."

"Okay! Okay, no offense meant, no harm done. I think it's great, and I'm really happy for you both."

"Thank you."

The doors opened, and I made my escape. "Good bye."

"See you at the wedding!" he said, cheerfully.

Once I was in the car, I had laughed. Then I considered the interchange between Reed and Sue. Victor underestimated Sue. Shallow she was not. I admired her all the more for the depth of her understanding. Reed, on the other hand, was acting—as if he were somehow implicated in whatever Victor had done that made him unfit to marry, and he didn't want anyone to find out…

Now I was really intrigued.

I pushed those thoughts aside and knocked on the office door.

"You may enter." came Victor's voice from within. I opened it, and went in.

The very sight of him made me ridiculously happy—. Which, considering the sheer absurdity of the mask, the armor and the cloak, was asking a lot of my heart. He was leaning over the polished burl wood table, perusing documents, the massive office globe at his elbow. He turned his head when I closed the door.

"Ah. Joviana." There was a distinct note of pleasure in his tone when he said my name. "How was your outing?"

"Great fun. The fruit basket was an outstanding success…" I told him how Reed had reacted. I was correct. Victor appreciated the joke thoroughly. I continued once he stopped chuckling.

"It wasn't just Sue and me—she invited the She-Hulk and the Wasp along as well. I wasn't sure if I would like them, but it turned out to be all right. Let's see, I got felt up by two older women, bought a lot of naughties and nighties—including something specifically for you, and several surprises—went to lunch, which turned into an impromptu bridal shower…Let me show you what they gave me." I had brought their gifts with me. I first showed him Jen's gift of the sleep set, and Janet's spa certificate.

"Very thoughtful of them. However, I should like to return to a statement you made previously."

"Oh?" I could guess which one he meant. I put on my best innocent expression, and blinked at him ingenuously.

"I believe I would appreciate further elaboration upon, 'I got felt up by two older women'. I think that in this case, context is all."

"They were professional bra fitters. That seems to be their way of ascertaining cup size. Disappointed?"

"I shall not comment. You may proceed."

"All right—This was from Sue." I put the bikini in front of him, and flipped over the bottoms. He looked at them. Then he looked at me, my lips twisted and we both started laughing. "She says, and I quote, 'In a weird way, Victor's like one of the family.'"

Which was entirely true. If Victor needed Reed Richards, as an opponent and a challenge, the Fantastic Four needed Doctor Doom for the same reason. Superheroes need supervillains to fight, and the greater the hero, the greater the villain. The one defined the other.

What would happen if the villain changed? Would the hero inexorably change as well?

"That's not all. There's this, my favorite of all their gifts." I passed him the magnet. "I told them I'd use it to stick notes on you of things I want you to remember."

"I require no such…" he began, and then the joke caught up with him. "More of your shrewish behavior. I have heard a woman never shows that aspect of herself until after she is safely married, and now I see that it is all true."

When we stopped laughing, I took one of the sleep masks from my purse and showed him. "I also got what seems like several dozen of these." I said significantly. "For all occasions."

"Very good." he commented. "I take it I will get to see the rest of your purchases later?"

"Some of them, yes. Are the arrangements made for the television interview?" I asked.

"Yes. It will be Sixty Minutes again—they were very pleased to be chosen. They will be setting up in the morning room even as we speak."

"That's good. They gave us such good coverage last time, and they can use file footage. Oh, and I just remembered something—two things—important."

I told him the story I had invented, of how the eleven-year-old leukemia patient met the twenty-something Victor.

"Affectingly poignant, without toppling over into sticky sentimentality. Very good. They found it moving?"

"Yes. I will tell the story to Sixty Minutes. You can 'remember', or not, as you choose."

"And tell the world the reason I waited until now to marry is that I was waiting for my bride to grow up, like Grover Cleveland did of his Frances? Tempting, but no. I will say I do not recall meeting you, for there were so many sick children. And the other important thing you remembered?"

I was going to be very selective in what I was about to say. "Janet Van Dyne and I knew each other as children. I recognized her, but she did not recognize me."

"Ah. It would have been better if I had known of this before."

"I'm sorry. She was just a girl I spent a few summers with, over ten years ago. I'm sure I was no more than that to her."

"We shall see what may come of this," he said. "I have something important of my own to tell you. I have invited a guest to join us for dinner tonight. Doctor Stephen Strange."

Stephen Strange was the Sorcerer Supreme of our world, the most skilled, adept and powerful magic-user.

"It should turn out to be an interesting evening to say the least." I observed. I looked around the room. "This is where we met. You were standing over there—by that window. You didn't even look at me at first."

"I could see your reflection in the glass."

"I didn't know that. I was actually glad you weren't looking at me because I was frightened enough already. I could hardly speak as it was."

"Yet you did not let your fear stop you from delivering to me the most valuable and astonishing facts I had learned in years, and in return, all you asked—was to come home. I have often thought of that hour, of late. Given the early deaths of my parents, the stories they might have shared of their lives are lost—written on water, recorded on the wind—there is a pleasing sense of continuity in the hope of one day perhaps being able to say to our child, or one day, perhaps even grandchildren, 'This is where I met your mother. This is where our family began.'"

"I'm sorely tempted to say something flippant and risqué," I said, "but this cuts too near to the bone. I have been wondering if you wanted children or not—afraid of the answer, whether it would be yes—or no." Saying that released a great knot of tension in my chest that I had not been fully aware of. My breath hitched—and I surprised myself with a sob.

"Joviana—."

"No!" I sprang up from my seat and raged through gritted teeth. "I will not cry! Not now, not when I'm going on Sixty Minutes within an hour. I will not go in front of the cameras with swollen red eyes. I know this is something we have to talk about. I know you don't understand right now—but please be patient." I wrenched the office door opened, and fled up to my rooms.

* * *

A/N: Shout-Outs! Thanks, Madripoor Rose! I admit that I am inspired by a list you will find over on sff dot net, 'The Evil Overlord Devises a Plot' Read all the lists, for both good and bad characters. It's hilarious.

Hello, Chantrea! By this time, you should have a second email waiting for you from me.

Hi, GothikStrawberry! Well, Joviana has observed that the hero always comes first--and then the villains rise up to oppose him/her. If there were no hero, there would be no villain. Seen the Incredibles? In the beginning, Mr. Incredible talks about saving the world, and how he wishes it would stay saved for a while? Well, there were fifteen years there when there were no active heroes,so apparantly the world didn't need saving in all that time...For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Long time Doomfans will recognize that the story of Doom's mother and her rescue from Hell was paraphrased from Stern and Mignola's excellent graphic novel Doctor Doom and Doctor Strange: Triumph and Torment. New Doomfans should seek out that work and read it.

* * *

It isn't just my eyes that swell and turn red when I cry; it's my nose too. And I wasn't even crying yet, not really. Ulrike, my wardrobe and image assistant, took one look at me when I entered the room, and got an ice pack.I was afraid of motherhood, terribly afraid.But this was not the time to confront those fears. I calmed myself down. It would be all right, it would be all right.

Then we began the process of readying me for the cameras. I changed my clothes, into an outfit with a traditional peasant blouse— a style which was very fashionable now in America, but which conveyed a distinct touch of Latverian nationalism as well. I drew the line at a ruffled skirt, and wore dark trousers. I did not want to look like I escaped from a production of The Sound of Music, after all.

"Thank you for coming over on such short notice." I told Ulrike as I fastened a chain around my neck. "I know it must have been a lot of trouble to you, and I do appreciate it. I would be a nervous wreck otherwise."

"It's no trouble to me—it's my job! Besides, my daughters are so jealous, it's wonderful. Both of them would give up a year of their lives to get visit America. They're at that age when they think they know everything…" She stuck a pin in my hair, and surveyed the result. "There."

The interview with Sixty Minutes was not really a problem. I had been on their show before, when they had done a segment on Latveria, as they often do on other countries. I just hoped it was the right thing to do. I was not very worried about the interview with the Daily Bugle, as my birth mother lived well out of its circulation range, but she did own a TV. The last time I had appeared on national television, I was just one of four examples of the generation that had been born under the Soviets, spent our childhoods under the Ceausescus and the Haasens, and matured in Doom's Latveria. I had said perhaps six sentences and appeared for less than four minutes. This time I would be on stage for fifteen minutes.

There was, briefly, a show on American TV called Wonderfalls. It was—wonderful. I was in America for the three episodes they showed before it was canceled, and I loved it. The main character got messages, delivered through toy animals, from some benevolent power in the universe about what she should be doing to make people's lives, including, sometimes, her own, better. As most of us stumble through life in confusion, who wouldn't love to get messages from the universe telling us what was the right course of action? I know I would love some back-up reassurance.

Then again, maybe I had got my message from the universe, when I pulled over and visited that moving sale in front of that house, and paid five dollars for that box that was under the card table. What was in it sent me down the path I was now taking. It inspired me to try and change the world.

If I ever needed it back again, I was in trouble, because I hid it in the attic of my grandmother's house. I snuck back in when my mother was out, using my key, and hid it between the insulation strips. My grandmother had left her house to me when she died, and my mother had promptly moved us in. She probably lived there still. That's one thing I don't regret about abandoning my old life—abandoning her, really. I didn't leave her with nothing. I gave her the house.

Anyhow, with Malice on the loose, if my mother didn't discover my whereabouts on her own, the mutant parasite would be sure to let her know.

The interview was not really a problem. Sixty Minutes is dignified and traditional. I smiled brightly and warmly at the interviewer and the camera, and talked. The fictional story of how Victor and I met had the desired effect—I could see how the camera crew reacted, and the embassy staff that were watching, as well as the interviewer. When they asked me if I was in love, I said, "Yes. Very much." When they asked me if he was in love, I said, "You would have to ask him." And I smiled. He had never yet said so, but—did he really have to? The things he did and how he acted were more eloquent than those three overused, unoriginal words.

It wasn't a live broadcast—it would appear on Sunday evening, after the Daily Bugle interview appeared in that paper's glossy feature magazine that morning, so New York, if not all of America, would be well informed and primed for more of me. Whoop-te-do!

The things I was prepared to do for love…

Only one trouble spot—when the reporter asked, "And what of your plans for the future? Are children on the agenda?" I felt a pang, but I smiled, my best Mona Lisa smile—and said, simply, "That remains to be seen."

Afterwards, when I went back upstairs to wash off the strange, heavy television make-up in the bathroom sink, Victor entered and stood watching as I spread cream over my eyes.

"Well done." he stated.

"Thank you." I soaked a washcloth and swabbed off the cream.

He was silent as I rinsed and splashed and wiped some more.

"Have your fears of motherhood anything to do with me?" he queried, speaking low.

"No." I told him, and looked him in the eyes.

"Have they to do with your mother?"

"Yes. I can't—I can't talk about this now, not with dinner in less than half an hour and our guest arriving any moment."

"I curse that I ever invited him—."

"No. Don't. Later, when you are out of your armor, when I can lie there in the dark with your arm over me, as we were the other night, afterwards…Then the words will come. I can cry then. Right now, though—tell me about Dr. Strange. I heard a little about him from Boris, but I've never met him."

"He aided me in rescuing my mother's soul from Hell…"

Victor was little more than an infant when Cynthia Von Doom died—when she was murdered. I had gone out among the Rom to aid in the education program—I had seen her people, some of whom were Victor's kin, distant cousins. Gypsies are possibly the most stereotyped of all minority groups. The image of the exotic, erotic dancing girls…the old women with only two teeth gazing into a crystal ball…swarthy men with head scarves knotted to the side and gold earrings—all the stuff of old movies. The reality was a lot sadder—and growing more tragic every day, for the Rom were being left further and further behind by the modern world.

Victor continued. "My mother was a drabarni, a witch. With her magics, she sought power—not for herself, but for her people, to end the attempts made by those in power to wipe them off the face of the earth. What the Nazis began, the Soviets continued. After I was born, her efforts redoubled, for now she had a vested interest in the future, and she was determined to make the world a safer place, for my sake. One dark night, her efforts were repaid, and she summoned Mephisto."

I could almost see the scene—the young mother, crouching naked in her protective circle, in a tent made hot with the fires of hell, fumes of incense fighting with the stink of brimstone, the sweat pouring down her skin, as she looked up into the pupil-less eyes of the Devil, suddenly aware that she had succeeded all too well.

"He offered her enough power to achieve what she wanted—but at a price. You have studied thaumaturgy. You know what payment he would have demanded."

"Her soul."

"Yes, her soul. She accepted—but she forgot one rule, one fact. Can you tell me what that is?"

"Demons always cheat." Demons are worse than lawyers when it comes to loopholes and tricky language. A magician might ask, in exchange for his soul, more money than he would ever be able to spend—and wind up with five bucks, because he was fated to be hit by a bus and killed twenty minutes later. Or a woman might ask for ever-lasting youth and beauty, only to be walled up alive in a tower cell, and the tower then destroyed, leaving an immortal trapped in the airless dark, where she could not be seen or heard.

"She was given power—but neither the strength to control it nor the knowledge of how to use it. It was akin to giving a seven year old child a machine gun with a hair trigger. She unleashed death upon every human being in an entire town—but as he died, one of the victims stabbed her…She enjoyed—if that is the proper word—her power for a scant two hours, before her soul was forfeit.

"My father took me and fled, before the world outside that town awoke to what had happened. That might have been the end of it—except for her legacy. She had a trunk full of books, magical artifacts, objects of arcane significance. He tried to leave it behind—only to find it back on our wagon the next morning. He tried to chop it into pieces, set fire to it, throw it down a well, bury it in the woods, sell it, give it away, throw it off a cliff, and feed it to goats, and it obediently splintered into kindling, burned up, sank, was covered up with dirt, was sold or given away, plummeted into the depths of a crevasse, and was devoured, but the next morning, it was always back, looking as fresh and new as the day she got it.

"That trunk was her legacy to me. Once I was old enough to read, I taught myself to use it—and once I believed myself capable of it, I began to try to free her soul from its torment—but to no avail. Until the aged Genghis, earthly avatar of the Vishanti, called an assembly of such magicians, sorcerers, conjurors and wizards as were adept enough to hear his call. It was to test all of the living users of magic to see which among them was truly the Sorcerer Supreme, the most powerful, skilled, and wise magician in the world.

"I was one of them." Victor said, proudly.

"Of course." I added. "But Dr. Strange was, too."

"Yes. He was already called the Sorcerer Supreme—the test merely confirmed it. I—came in second. As I had planned. For the Sorcerer Supreme was bound by duty and honor to grant a boon to those who passed the first part of the test—and I was the only other one who had achieved as much."

"You chose that he should help you rescue your mother."

"That was indeed my choice. He thought it odd that I should not seek to use him in my plans of conquest, but he accepted it. We trained and prepared for months, the process a long and grueling one. The battle was even more so, but ultimately, my mother's soul found its way to Heaven—redeemed."

"You're leaving out quite a lot of the story," I said, after a moment. I found his story incredibly affecting—not merely what he said, but the way in which he said it, the passion in his voice.

"We are rather pressed for time." He pointed out. "The good doctor is likely to be awaiting us in the drawing room."

"Did you have a particular reason for inviting him tonight?" I asked. "Or was it just out of a wish to see him again."

"I had a very particular reason." Victor said, a trace of humor in his voice again. "I want his professional opinion of your potential as a sorcerer."

* * *

A/N: For any of my readers for whom English may not be their first language, 'whoop-te-do' is a string of nonsense syllables that means, roughly, 'This is making a lot out of something trivial.'

Hi, **Madripoor Rose!** It's always seemed to me that the accident that disfigured Victor (the comic book origin for any movie fans reading) has been a 'his word against mine' at best, because A: Who knows what touching a magical object might do to it? B: Who says Reed knew what the calculations meant in a partially magical useage? and finally, C: What was Reed doing in Victor's dorm room anyway? If I werelooking for somebody and I knocked on their door and they didn't answer, I'd go away. I wouldn't go in to see for myself, and I wouldn't start looking at their personal papers.

That having been said, you'll have to wait and see--but your reading on why Joviana is upset about the idea of being a mother was good.

Hello, **Julietsdaughter**! Yes, Victor does want children. It's Joviana who has doubts about her ability to be a good parent. It will be a few chapters before they will get a chance to talk about it, however.

**GothikStrawberry,** hi! Joviana is upset, not because she might be infertile, but because her experiences with her birthmother cause her to question whether she can be a good mother herself. I hope you enjoy this chapter: we are going into an arc with a lot of action to come.


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: If it weren't for Madripoor Rose's review a few hours ago, I'd be forlornly asking what I did wrong with the last chapter that it didn't get even one review. Thank you, MR. This one is much more exciting than the last...

* * *

"But I don't have mage sight, and I can't even invoke the Flames of the Faltine without messing up." I protested. "I can't turn water into tea using magic, not even if you gave me a teabag."

"One who can descend into Hell and coerce demons, even lesser ones, to bend to her will, and return to life, still calling her soul her own, is not without ability." Victor stated with finality.

"Did I coerce lesser demons to bend to my will?" I asked.

"Yes. When you arrived with the Talisman, you were using your belt for a choke-chain around the neck of one of them."

"I don't remember that." I frowned. "Are there going to be tests involved?"

"There will be. You need not change for dinner—your garb looks to be practical enough—although you might perhaps put on sturdier, more comfortable shoes." Victor commented.

"Oh." I said. What was I in for that evening?

As it happened, I beat Victor downstairs by five minutes, and arrived to find our guest strolling around the drawing room, looking at the Renoir that hung between the windows on the south wall. He turned to face me when I entered.

"Hello," I said. "You're Doctor Strange; I'd know you anywhere." He was a handsome man in his forties, with a grey 'racing stripe' arcing up and back from his temples, and a neat mustache, wearing a dark suit and a blue tie. "I'm Joviana." Once again, I left off my last name. Introductions were going to be so much simpler after the wedding, when everyone would accept that I was a Von Doom.

"Indeed I am." he said, extending a hand. "But please, call me Stephen. Doom—ah, Victor—has told me about you. I'm delighted to have the chance to meet you."

"Likewise." I smiled. "But don't people usually say 'told me so much about you', rather than simply 'told me about you'?"

"They do. However, I would be telling an untruth if I did so. Victor said, when he invited me, 'If you are free this evening, I would appreciate it if you were to assay my wife's magical potential. If you arrive at seven there will be plenty of time for dinner beforehand.' I said that I would—as I am as curious as the rest of the world, and even more so after his astonishing invitation—but when I asked who you were, he said only that you were exceptionally intelligent and that you had literally gone through Hell for him. And that you were an extremely learned student of magic who had never yet cast a single spell." There was a distinct note of skepticism in his voice at that last statement.

"I don't see why I couldn't be a magical scholar who has never cast a single spell. After all, think of the many theologians out there who have never seen or spoken to a single god."

Victor laughed—he had entered the room while Dr. Strange and I were talking. "Your acquaintance can hardly be more than five minutes long, and already you've run afoul of her wit." He strolled over, in full armor, but sans gloves and mouth grill. "Good evening, Stephen."

"Good evening, Victor. I wouldn't say afoul. When a beautiful woman chooses to sharpen her wit on my dull stone, what can I be but flattered?"

"What a lovely compliment." I exclaimed. "He must think me intelligent. Isn't the first rule of charm to tell the beautiful ones how intelligent they are and the brainy ones how good-looking they are?"

"If you were to hold me to that you'd leave me no way of expressing my admiration for you at all. How could I possibly place you into either category?" Dr. Strange returned. "Can you not throw me a rope, Victor? I fear I'm in over my head here."

"In this contest you must sink or swim on your own." Victor told him, and to me he said, "I'm surprised you don't complain that I never say such things to you."

"That's true. You don't. You simply make me feel them." I answered, smiling into his eyes.

"Ah." he said—he seemed momentarily at a loss—"That, Stephen is why I do not take you to task for saying such things to her in front of my face—for I have no fear of what you might say to her behind my back."

"How on earth did I get into this conversation?" the sorcerer wondered. "You needn't worry about me in any event, Victor. I gave up seducing other men's wives when I took up the study of magic, and I always steered clear of the real thing—meddling here would be as dangerous as juggling nitroglycerin."

It was true—Dr. Stephen Strange had a reputation for being a terrible womanizer and partier when he was still the brilliant, proud, young neurosurgeon, before he wrapped his car around a tree one drunken night and wound up with nerve damage that left him unable to operate ever again. He crawled into a bottle—and then into the gutter. That was why there would be no wines served at the table this evening, and no alcohol used in the preparation of the meal.

While he was still pursuing slow suicide via alcoholism, he heard a rumor. Magic might be able to heal his damaged hands, and give him back his career, his income, his women, his life. He sought magic—and found it. Once he found it, he found there was no room left in his life for the superficial successes, the vain and meaningless glories of the existence he had outgrown.

The butler announced that dinner was ready. As we went in and took our seats, Victor saw how I was smiling and asked me why.

"I was just comparing this conversation with one I had earlier today, in an elevator, with Johnny Storm—to his detriment. Most men aren't worth speaking to before they turn thirty."

"I like your bride more and more all the time, Victor. She is clearly a woman of great discernment."

We took our seats around the table, and the (thoroughly human, this time) waiters served the first course, a lettuce and tarragon soup. As they set down the soup plates, I caught a glimpse of Doctor Strange out of the corner of my eye, and noticed something very interesting. Instead of wearing a dark business suit, he was actually wearing a blue tunic with arcane symbols on it, and a red and gold cloak with an elaborate high collar, which, if he turned his head unwisely, had him in danger of putting out an eye. Speaking of which, the heavy gold clasp at his throat was the famous amulet called the Eye of Agamotto, which allowed the user to see through all illusion. He had come prepared for whatever trial awaited me after dinner.

"I am very interested in hearing about your journey to Hell and back again." our guest said, draping his napkin in his lap.

"In all truth, I remember little of it." I said. "Victor told me only a few minutes ago that I was subduing minor demons while I was there. I was technically dead at the time. It's hard to remember when one doesn't have a functioning brain."

"Dead?" Stephen Strange exclaimed. "Begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it."

Victor began by explaining how the battle-mage Shakti had come to the castle on a pretext, bringing with her the Rohnert Talisman. She had abruptly turned on Victor, attacking him without warning or provocation. He had been more than a match for her, but before she was defeated, she had opened an extremely inconvenient transdimensional portal to Hell in the middle of the Great Hall.

After ordering that Shakti be taken to the dungeons, Victor had retrieved what he thought was the Rohnert Talisman from the floor of the Hall. As it was simplest to close a portal with the same key that opened it, he said the words that should have sealed the rip in reality...

They worked—but not before the portal had engulfed him. It was a very carefully constructed trap.

The waiters removed the soup dishes and served the next course—a salad of chilled asparagus spears with an herbed tomato coulis. "That's where you come into this, Stephen." I said.

"My part?" he asked, startled. "This is the first I've heard of this!"

"Exactly. Boris had your numbers to call in case of a magical emergency, but you weren't available at any of them. Which, in a way, makes you responsible for our marriage." I ate a forkful of asparagus.

"This gets more and more interesting." Doctor Strange commented, his eyebrows raised. "Victor, can you unravel this for me?"

"It was after the events that followed that I realized what I had in Joviana, and became determined to marry her." explained Victor. "Had you answered your phone and consequently come to my assistance, I would still be living in ignorance."

"So I acted as matchmaker in absentia?" mused the sorcerer. "If you want to name your firstborn after me in thanks, I would have no objection."

"That shall have to wait until there may be a firstborn," Victor said pleasantly.

"Of course." said Doctor Strange. "What happened then?"

"Somebody had to do something about it, and that somebody turned out to be me." I told him. "I knew Victor would eventually win free of Mephisto and his domain, but 'eventually' might have been a lot longer than was good for Latveria—or the world."

Strange raised an eyebrow at that, but made no comment, so I continued. "I—also realized that I would miss him. I did not go into it thinking, 'Oh, I must rescue my one true love!' I want you to understand that. I can't stand that kind of sickening mush."

"I understand. No one here is saying that you did." There was a hint of a twinkle in Doctor Strange's eyes. "Do go on."

"The first thing I did was get the real one back from Shakti." I explained. "Unfortunately, she had swallowed it, so getting it back meant giving her a big dose of syrup of ipecac mixed with cascara." Syrup of ipecac was a powerful emetic, cascara an equally powerful laxative. It had been messy. "Once the Talisman was well washed, it was quite clearly damaged, and no one on hand, other than Shakti, had the sorcerous skill to open another physical portal to Hell, and not only was she not to be trusted, after the dose I gave her, she wasn't in any condition to move. So I started thinking…"

I explained the reasoning and research that had led me to the courtyard well while the main course was served, salmon in basil cream sauce with rice and minted carrots on the side. The embassy chef had a way with herbs.

"That took a great deal of courage—not to mention faith." Doctor Strange said, thoughtfully.

"I felt anything but brave." I confessed. "And as for having faith in Victor's ability to bring me back—that's like saying I have faith in the laws of gravity. I knew that he could resuscitate me successfully." I didn't explain how I knew for certain it would word—not yet, anyway. Victor was positively beaming at me from across the table, his eyes and mouth both smiling.

"I think it is once again my turn to take up this narrative." Victor said. "Unprepared as I was to be so suddenly cast among Mephisto's hordes, I fought with all the resources at my disposal. I fought until I was overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Demons cannot be destroyed by any purely technological weapon—not in Hell, at any rate. Their substance is not like true flesh—it is more akin to protoplasm. Splatter out the brains of one, and it reforms even as you watch. Such spells as I had at my command, I used, until I was exhausted, my throat too dry to voice another. They captured me, and bound me to a rock like Prometheus, with Mephisto hovering over me, vulture-like—but then I heard a voice I thought I recognized."

TBC….


	28. Chapter 28

Victor continued. "She said, 'No. That can't be the Morningstar. Even after the Fall, Lucifer, the foremost of the Host of Heaven, would be beautiful.'

" 'What is this?' Mephisto grated out.

"It was Joviana's voice, although from my vantage point upon the rock, I could not see her, nor could I comprehend how she came to be in Hades…

"Mephisto repeated himself. 'What? This is no place for such as you! You stink! You reek of the light, of rainwater and fresh air. Get you gone!'

"She corrected him. 'The line is "Get you to Heaven, Beatrice, get you to Heaven; Here's no place for you maids."' The quote, Stephen, since I see you furrowing your brows, is from Much Ado About Nothing. In context, 'you maids' means 'maidens', or virgins."

The sorcerer was biting his lip to keep from smiling. "I can think in iambic pentameter, believe it or not." I told him.

"Oh, I believe it." He assured me. "Someone who can quote Shakespeare to the devil for her own purposes…"

"She had come into view by then," Victor picked up where he had left off, "dragging with her a very unhappy looking demon on a leash. Its face was a mass of dripping tentacles, and it was straining to be free and clawing at the floor, cowering as far away from her as the band around its neck would permit."

"A leash?" asked Doctor Strange.

"Her belt. Mephisto glared at her and demanded, 'What do you want here?'

"'Not you.' she replied. 'This has nothing to do with you. I'm here because of Doom. Once my business with him is finished, I'll be gone.' "

"'Conduct your business and be gone, then!' the fiend snarled.

"She dropped the leash and approached the rock, the hordes of Hell parting to let her pass unmolested. When she reached me, she bowed as formally as if she encountered me in a drawing room. 'My lord.'

"This was not the first time she had astonished me, but the second. The first was at her job interview. 'You?' I wondered, half a question, half an exclamation.

"'You forgot this.' She placed the Rohnert Talisman in my hand.

"'No!' howled Mephisto, but it was already too late. I was free, and I turned the power of the Talisman upon his assembled legions—a few levinbolts sent them gibbering to the recesses of Hell, and I then cast a protective shield between them and ourselves.

"'If this is Hell, I must say I don't think much of it.' Joviana remarked with mild interest. 'Not that I was expecting Tim Burton's imagery, which he mostly stole from German Expressionist cinema anyway, but I was expecting something more along the lines of Hieronymus Bosch. This is really rather dull. A great big fiery cavern, populated by a lot of demons that, to be quite frank, look rather rubbery and fake, like something out of a 'Z' grade movie.' "

This was too much for Doctor Strange, who slapped the table and burst out laughing.

"I must have said more than that!" I protested. "Because—."

"Oh, you did." Victor assured me. "But that is not for public dissemination. Although her critique of Mephisto's interior decoration was, in fact, very funny, I could not appreciate the humor in it at the time, for I could now perceive that she was faintly luminous with an inner light, that she stood before me, but not in the flesh…

"It was with mounting horror that I exclaimed, 'If you are here, then you are dead!'

"'Not if you return and save me,' she replied.

"'But why?' I asked her—and the answer she gave me is not for your ears, Stephen." Victor finished, and took a swallow of ice water.

"What about mine?" I asked him, and to Doctor Strange I said, "Apparently whatever I said must have been fairly overwhelming, because he decided to marry me on the strength of it."

"I will tell you, but not yet." Victor set his glass down with an air of finality.

"When, then?" I raised an eyebrow at him.

"When the wedding band I commissioned for you is finished. When I can put it into your hand, and you can read for yourself what is engraved there, and not until then. I am assured that it will be done the day before the wedding."

"You're going to keep me hanging until then?" I asked. "This is unendurable!"

"You will manage to survive somehow until then." Victor told me. "Our conversation in Hades ended with a scolding. 'What are you doing hanging around here for? You have to get back up there and get me out of the well before my brain cells start dying! Hurry up!'

"I arrived back in the material world, and began the resuscitation process immediately. And there you have it."

Doctor Strange was silent for a long moment. "What a remarkable tale." he said slowly. "One which is, in my experience and learning, unique. Joviana, what do you recall of it?"

I told him all that I could remember about my descent into the underworld—the judgment of my soul, the angel who winked, Charon's boat, the sinister forest of suicides, finding Victor, and giving him the Amulet. I was honest about it, telling him I did not know how much of it was real and how much was snippets of movies woven by my oxygen-starved imagination.

"I suspect it was a little of both." Strange sat up in his chair. "Yes, the underworld does reconfigure itself, but it tends to reflect a consensus of belief—an amalgam of the predominant idea of what Hell is—which is why it seemed so clichéd to you. I am inclined to believe that the incident with the angel is the product of your own brain, as I have never heard of such an encounter before this—but I could be wrong. Now, as to how you were able to accomplish these things—I can answer that.

"You got into Hell only because you were convinced that suicides are automatically damned, and because no soul has ever voluntarily gone to Hell. You were not only not one of the damned, you gave up your life to help another, out of unselfish motives, which is a very powerful —why do you wince?" the sorcerer asked me.

"I'm not sure how unselfish my motives were, in all truth." I muttered, thinking of how I had done it because I needed him alive in order to advance my own goal of ridding the world of super heroism.

Doctor Strange misconstrued me. "Did you go down into that freezing water because you were being paid to do it, or promised power, prestige, or some other tangible personal advantage? Those are selfish motivations. Not—not friendship, or concern for what would happen to Latveria, or even being in love and unaware of it.

"The result of your self-sacrifice was that you were temporarily imbued, for the length of your 'death', with powers that you would not have had anywhere but in Hell.

"There are limits to what demons can do—they could only confine Victor because he had a physical body, for example, and they would have been very careful not to kill him—because he is not evil enough to be damned. Killing him would set his soul free to soar to Heaven. They have power over the souls of the damned only—they cannot touch the souls of those who are not. So not only could they not harm you, your presence was searingly painful to them—and that applied to Mephisto just as it did to the smallest imp in Hades. You could have torn any of them apart with your bare hands—literally. They would have re-formed once you were gone, but they would have been diminished, for a time.

"So it is not strictly accurate to say that you have never cast a spell. Your death, as you went about it, constituted a magical rite."

"But—." I sought about for a way to articulate what I wanted to say. This fringed upon my most guarded theories and observations about the nature of the universe. "I knew I would succeed. I knew I'd be coming back to life. I knew that Victor would be able to resuscitate me successfully. I was playing with loaded dice. That negates—or should negate—the effects of my heroic self-sacrifice."

"Faith is a positive quality." Victor said. "I am touched by the depth of yours in me."

"I do believe in you—but I also mean it in another sense."

"Would you care to explain it?" Doctor Strange invited me.

"All right." I took a deep breath. This could be a mistake. This could be a disastrous mistake. I looked at Victor. "This has to do with what you and I said to Magneto yesterday—Can it really be just yesterday?—about how the world as we know it ends about twice a year, and affects little or nothing, and how every single time that Galactus is about to devour the Earth, the heroes rally round and stop him, or maybe the threat is an invasion of the Skrulls, or the Kree, or the Mindless Ones from the Dungeon Dimensions—." The Mindless Ones were Doctor Strange's particular foes.

I took another deep breath. "The world is always, always saved. Against impossible odds. Just in the nick of time. Because just as there are laws of science—and of magic—there are what I call laws of heroics."

TBC….again.

* * *

A/N: Thanks, **Chantrea**! Also, Hi, **GothikStrawberry**! Wow--30 people trying to buy you drinks--my mind boggles. Do you live in Ireland or just visit?

Thanks to you too, **Madripoor Rose**! Real life? Who needs real life when you can write--and read? I know it happens to everybody though--even me. The children conversation is going to happen a few chapters from now--after Dr. Strange goes home. Neither Joviana nor Victor--or even I --will forget about it.

Don't worry, **Tiktok**! You won't have missed anything about what she said unless you've gone on a really, really long vacation...


	29. Chapter 29

"One of your insights, my dear?" asked Victor.

"Yes. That was how I knew someone was about to jump me from behind when I saw the mouse, yesterday—and sure enough, the Toad was there. That was also how I knew you would arrive in time to prevent Magneto from harming me. This particular insight hasn't as much support as I would like, as yet. I'm extrapolating from observed phenomena, and it's slow going." Plus, most of my proofs, both what I had found in that box at the moving sale, and that which I had painstakingly (and somewhat illegally) assembled, were hidden in my grandmother's attic.

"Laws of heroics." echoed Dr. Strange, sounding faintly puzzled. "Do you mean the psychology of heroes—that they will act in certain predictable ways?"

"No. I mean that just as Newton's third law of physics states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and the Frazer's law of contact in magic states that an object that was once a part of something remains connected to that thing forever, there are as-yet unwritten laws of heroics. The mouse and the Toad are an example of the law that states 'If the perceived threat turns out to be something harmless, the real threat is about to attack from behind.' The law of Rescues states that 'Whatever it is that must be rescued, whether it be person, place, or thing, it will not be rescued until the very last minute.' How often have you heard of someone rescuing the world with two weeks—or even eighteen hours—to spare?"

"Never…" said the sorcerer, slowly. "This is—I want to laugh, but somehow—your observations are striking a chord with me. Victor—you might be said to be more familiar with this from the other end."

"Meaning what, precisely?" Victor inquired, in tones that were all ice.

Uh-oh. There are not many people from whom Victor will take such a statement, even made in a spirit of jocularity, as Stephen was trying to put it. I was one of those few. The Sorcerer Supreme apparently was not.

Doctor Strange pressed on. "That you have been a threat to the world in the past and may be yet again. For all your better qualities, I know on which side of the fence you belong."

Victor sat up abruptly, leaning forward and placing both hands on the table, as if getting ready to spring. "Tread carefully, Strange."

I needed to pour oil on these waters. "There you are wrong, Stephen." I kept my voice so soft and low that they needed to concentrate on what I was saying—so their attention would be on me and not on each other. "Victor is one of the heroes. He has always been one of the heroes." In fact, Victor's history was one of the heroic archetypes—The Boy Who Would Be King. Born into poverty, orphaned at a tragically young age, he had overcome great obstacles and terrible trials, wandered through the world friendless and alone, only to overcome adversity, return home to reclaim his birthright, and attain the throne, ousting the usurper to become the wise and good ruler who brings peace and prosperity to the land.

"Is that how you see me?" asked Victor, distracted from his anger.

"Always." I said, truthfully. "That's why you're such a conundrum to the other heroes. You are one of them—but at odds with them."

"I think I begin to see." said Stephen Strange. "Victor, I apologize for my ill-phrased attempt at wit. I will leave the wit to Joviana, who is the master—the maestra of it."

"I accept your apology." Victor was gracious about it. The waiters cleared the dinner plates and brought dessert—a trio of sorbets, blackberry, apricot, and red current, small scoops of each, with rich little almond macaroons, and little demitasses of coffee.

"As fascinating as I find this discussion—and I do find it highly thought-provoking—perhaps we might return to it another time. I would like to discuss the magical education you have received thus far." Strange pointed his spoon in my direction.

"Then you, too, think I have potential." I stated.

"It is difficult to argue with the result of your first successful ritual. I would call it quite impressive." The sorcerer looked from one of us to the other.

"Yes, but suppose I can only work magic successfully by committing suicide before I attempt a spell? That could prove impractical—and make my sorcerous career a very brief one." I sipped my coffee.

"Let us hope that will not be necessary." He addressed Victor. "I presume you have been teaching her."

"I have not." Victor replied.

"You haven't?" Doctor Strange was obviously surprised.

"No. I granted her access to my entire library and told her to read whatever she wanted. Joviana's best teacher has always been herself."

"I see." Strange's brows contracted until they met in the middle. "What discipline have you been following?"

"No single one." I answered. "I've been reading them all. I'm searching for magic's common denominator, so to speak. For example, all disciplines of magic have a way of casting a circle of protection. It's usually the first thing a novice learns to do, but there are as many different ways of casting one as there are disciplines. Some rely on a ring of candles, and the circle is destroyed when the candles go out. Some are only visualized, others must be drawn on the floor. I am trying to discover what all of the methods have in common—the root of them all. I am trying to discover the atom of magic."

"I believe I begin to understand your lack of success. Have you been applying this scientific way of thinking to all aspects of magic?" asked the sorcerer.

"Yes. I know what you are going to say—that magic is not science, that science is about understanding, and magic is about mystery. Almost all of what we call science today was magic not so long ago. Have you ever read Arthur C. Clarke?" I was wondering why Victor was so quiet—much as he was yesterday, when he was content to let me do so much of the talking to Magneto.

"The science fiction writer? Not for many, many years."

"He states that the products of a sufficiently advanced civilization cannot be distinguished from magic. He is correct. Cars—planes—telephones—refrigeration—radio—television—cell phones—computers—genetic engineering—all of these things would seem like magic to someone of two hundred years ago. For that matter, how many people today understand the principles behind these things any better than you understand how and why magic works now?"

"One major difference is that none of the products of technology require that one believe in them in order to get them to work. A major component of any working of magic is belief." Doctor Strange emphasized his point with a finger, waggling it at me.

"Does that mean that you will soon see a generation of magicians raised on 'Harry Potter' using 'Wingardium Leviosa' as their levitation spell of choice?" I countered.

"But that is fiction—and children's fiction, at that!"

"I tell you now, Stephen, that there are those who believe in their fictions as deeply and sincerely as you do in the Vishanti. If it is truly belief that is the key, you will start seeing 'Quiddich' matches soon."

"You ask difficult questions, Joviana."

"But she asks them of herself just as relentlessly as she does of others, Stephen." Victor commented.

"Does she ask them of you?" inquired Strange.

"Constantly." Victor replied.

"Do you answer them?"

"When and as I can. When she starts asking questions such as 'In what way is an invocation different from a prayer—or is different from a prayer?' or, 'Precisely what makes a particular word magic?' then she goes beyond my mystic knowledge—which is second only to your own."

Then it hit me why Victor was so often quiet when I talked. He was proud of me. He was proud of my intellect, of my wit. As other men might encourage their wives to dress sexily and wear make-up, to show them off to other men, Victor encouraged me to talk. I impressed people. He liked that.

That was—very, very flattering.

I was going to have to be extremely nice to him tonight, in ways involving some of the purchases I made that day.

I temporarily shelved that train of thought, as Doctor Strange said, "She goes beyond mine as well. Joviana, you ask questions like a child—or like a genius. I know you are not the one, so I suspect you must be the other. However, I must say—and I do not mean this as an insult—that from the point of view of a practitioner of magic—you think too much."

"That, Doctor Strange, is the story of my life. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment before we get into the practical part of testing me for magical ability—I will return shortly."

While I was washing my hands, I closed my eyes, and tried to imagine Victor as a father—which was surprisingly easy.

Of course he would love his children. His own flesh and blood, who wore the name of Doom and would carry it into the future? That was as inevitable as the sun rising. His pride in fathering a child would be tremendous even for him.

And once it was born—I could see Victor with a little one toddling around the castle behind him, tugging on his cape to get his attention, and then looking up at him, as only a child can, with the conviction that here was the greatest man on earth—Victor would eat that up with a spoon.

The thought created a soft wrenching feeling in my chest, a pang in my heart.

Then I mentally fast-forwarded fifteen years or so, and pictured myself patiently explaining to him that he really couldn't put our teenage daughter in the dungeons, or even confine her to her room on nothing but bread and water until she thought better of wanting to go out with Franklin Richards, and begged her father's forgiveness. Victor would definitely be better at some aspects of fatherhood than others.

Then I tried to imagine myself as a mother, and it was only with an iron will that I prevented myself from shaking. I tried to recall my grandmother's patient love, but it was my mother's face and voice that came unbidden, unwanted, to my mind.

I had never even had a pet. How could I have a baby?

But the thought of not having children was like a bleeding wound, it hurt terribly, too…

I turned off the water and dried my hands. The doctors were waiting for me.

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter, Joviana is going back to Hell!**

Hello, **GothikStrawberry!** I'm glad you've recovered from that visit. But it does sound like it was fun.

Hi, **Chantrea!** You can expect an e-mail from me soon. I, too, love Terry Pratchett. I have Thud! too, and I got it signed by the man himself. I think the idea of the Dungeon Dimensions comes from many sources, and I did not intentionally borrow it from Terry.To disseminate means to spread around. There are very specific, if unwritten,rules about what happens in stories, and Joviana seems to have an idea what they are.

Oooh, **Madripoor Rose!** You're so close! While you're looking for F4 and Doom titles--avoid the Unthinkable storyline, as if it were contagious. It's awful, and it's out of character, and Marvel hated it so much they fired the writer.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: I own neither Robert Frost's "Provide, Provide!" (which can be found on americanpoetry dot com,)nor Bradbury's 'The Exiles', which is in his excellent book 'The Illustrated Man.' I am making no money on this, and use these quotes respectfully, to add richness and depth to this work. I urge my readers to read these for themselves.

* * *

"I'm sorry." I said, an hour and a half after the testing began. I had run, or been run through half-a-dozen different spells and incantations, to no avail. All I had managed was perhaps one weak flicker of conjured flame, and that was being charitable. 

"That's quite all right." said Doctor Strange. He sounded a bit frazzled. "Do you know what the problem might be?" He did not add the words 'this time', for which I was grateful, but it was implied.

"I think it's the words of the incantation. They sound too much like Longfellow's 'Hiawatha'. I can't stand that poem. Besides being unforgivably long, it's fatuous and demeaning to American Indians."

"As I understand it, they prefer the phrase 'Native Americans'." commented Victor.

"I will remember that." I told him. "At any rate, I may be saying 'By the Omnipotent Oshtur/By the Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth, but I'm thinking 'On the shores of Gitche Gumee/Of the shining Big-Sea-Water'."

Victor chuckled. Stephen Strange groaned, but only slightly. "I see." the sorcerer said. "I think I would like to confer with Victor for a moment. Alone."

"Certainly." I retreated to a corner of the tiny walled garden that was behind the embassy. Picking a sprig of lemon balm from the patch of herbs, I rubbed it over my neck and hands. The spell I had been trying to perform was intended to banish lesser demons. I would rather have been learning a spell to banish mosquitoes. It would have been much more useful.

At the other end of the garden, the two cloaked figures of Victor and Doctor Strange reminded me of a football huddle. This image was reinforced when they straightened and turned, walking back toward me.

"All right!" Strange said, clapping his hands together. "I think it's time we tried a more practical approach. I will call up a lesser fiend, and your task will be to banish it. You will have nothing to worry about—it will be under my control and perfectly safe."

Famous last words, I thought, but I said, "All right."

"Please repeat the spell for me again. Don't attempt to cast it—just run through it." He requested.

"By the omnipotent Oshtur!  
By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth!  
In the name of the eternal Vishanti!  
Be gone! Return to the nothingness  
from whence you have come!" I recited dutifully.

"Good." he said, and began summoning. Soon a roiling pillar of smoke, shot through with flashes of infernal light welled up in the center of the garden. An enormous creature with tiny cold grey eyes like a shark's, a beak like a vulture's, and claws like nothing on earth coalesced in it.

"That is not a minor anything, Strange!" Victor growled.

"It's perfectly safe," insisted the Sorcerer Supreme. "I have it under control-oh, no!"

Darkness spread out to fill the garden like a dropperful of ink in a cup of water. The fiend made a hungry noise and lunged for me, raising one massive paw. It was so close, I could feel its foul breath stir the hair at my temple as it grinned horribly.

"It's no use." I said. "The shadows are an illusion, and I can see the two of you standing right there, perfectly calm and composed. Plus, this is exactly what I would do if I were in your situation—put a threat in front of a student and see if that would break her block."

The fiend froze. Victor, amusedly, told Stephen, "I said she would see through it, did I not?"

"You did." The sorcerer sounded positively weary this time. "When and how did you start seeing through the illusion?"

"At dinner. I saw you out of the corner of my eye, and I saw you were in your costume, and that the suit was an illusion. Once I knew that, the illusion thinned out like smoke. Do I have mage sight after all?" I asked.

"Not unless you can see the binding I have on this creature." Doctor Strange made the illusion vanish.

"I can't." I said.

"Then it's your mind not playing tricks on you. All right. Let me get rid of this creature…" This time, the words he spoke were in a language I didn't know.

Instead of simply vanishing, the demon reached out, and grabbed me by my hair.

"OW!" I shouted, as the earth shivered and swallowed us up—the demon and I. Darkness came like a crack of thunder.

The next breath I took seared my lungs as a hot skillet sears meat. Dangling from the fiend's claw as I was, by my hair, I could not open my eyes further than mere slits—and the pain was blinding—but I caught a glimpse of the lurid glow of hellfire, and I could smell sulfur and brimstone. "Lord Mephisto!" cackled the demon, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. "Lord Mephisto, I've got her, I've got her!" It shook me as if I were no more than a doll in the grip of a child.

"Well, bring her here!" a voice reverberated through my head.

Instead of carrying me, the fiend drew his arm back and hurled me toward its master. A sea of demonic faces flashed before my eyes; then I landed on the milling horde of bodies, and, like a body surfer throwing herself into a mosh pit, was passed, prone, by dozens, no, hundreds of hands, some of which were hard, and others doughy, some slimy, some scaly, some sticky. They poked and prodded, pinched and felt at me as I was moved along as if caught in an undertow.

"Carefully, now! I don't want her damaged—not yet, at least!" screeched Mephisto. They set me on my feet, roughly, and then, before I could get my bearings, they assailed me with slaps and shoves, so that I reeled from one side of the small clearing in their fiendish melee to the other. Their intent was to disorient me, to humiliate, not hurt. Their blows stung, but did not injure.

It was unpleasantly reminiscent of middle school. I half expected Steve Moffat to show up next, and beat me up for getting a better grade in algebra than he did.

"Enough!" commanded Mephisto. The teasing ceased abruptly.

Panting, I righted myself, straightened my clothes, and stiffened my back. I summoned all the dignity I could muster, and said to the Lord of Hell, "I would like to apologize for certain remarks that I made during my last visit. They were rude. I did not intend to be rude, but I was dead at the time, and could not censor myself. I would never have said what I did, otherwise."

"What?" asked Mephisto. "Oh, you are an amusing one! As I recall, last time you found my demesnes rather dull. Look about you now! Is this more to your liking?"

Hands grabbed my head from behind, forcing me to look where ever they chose. Hell was a lot scarier looking on this visit—with a start, I recognized a knee-high demon. Not because I had seen it when I was there the last time, though…

It had a bird's head, with an abnormal beak, and it wore a metal funnel for a hat, with a red robe. It was an exact duplicate of the little skating demon in 'The Temptation of Saint Anthony', by Hieronymus Bosch. As I was forced to look around, the horizons of Hell began to waver and melt, reforming into the landscape as seen in the last panel of Bosch's masterpiece, 'The Garden of Earthly Delights'—the panel which depicted Hell.

I remembered some of the things that were going on in that last panel. They weren't very nice.

"If you're imagining that you'll be devoured alive only to be shit out over and over again, or cut into cutlets and fried, you needn't worry about that—yet. You see, this time you're here alive, and while that means we can hurt you in any number of imaginative ways, it also means that you can die. You mortals are so fragile—! Then you would be out of my reach forever. I mean to have my vengeance out on Doom through you. He'll suffer far more this way—such exquisite agonies! I shall begin by seeing just what I can offer you for your soul." Mephisto explained.

I almost laughed in sheer relief. What could he possibly tempt me with? Especially since I knew what it would cost—and that he would cheat. I did not laugh, however. Instead, I asked a question.

"Doctor Strange said Hell reflected a consensus of belief. Why is it changing? Are you doing this specifically for me?"

"It is you who is doing it." replied Mephisto. "One of you mortals, now dead, has said that Hell is other people…"

"Sartre, in his play, 'No Exit'." I identified.

He continued as if I had not spoken. "But I beg to differ. Hell is oneself. It is exactly as bad as you have always imagined, and all punishments are tailor-made to fit the individual customer."

That—might be significant. Mephisto went on. "How would you like to be the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth?"

"How? By disfiguring or killing off all the other women on Earth?" I shot back.

"I see my reputation precedes me. No. I would do it" he shuddered theatrically, "honestly."

"You lie." I said. "You couldn't possibly do that. I can have only one face, one body, one head of hair. The ideal beauty differs too much from place to place for me to fit all of them. How am I to be the most beautiful woman by the standards of Middle America and of the Kalahari Bushmen in Africa at one and the same time? Your offer is meaningless. In any case, I'm not that shallow."

"Are you not?" he asked, meditatively. "Are you not? Yet you yearn for beauty, and what it could bring you."

I surprised myself then, for out of me came words. Not a charm or a spell—nothing of that sort, but a poem. Robert Frost's 'Provide, Provide!'

"The witch that came (the withered hag)/ To wash the steps with pail and rag/Was once the beauty Abishag,

The picture pride of Hollywood./ Too many fall from great and good/ For you to doubt the likelihood.

Die early and avoid the fate. /Or if predestined to die late/Make up your mind to die in state.

Make the whole stock exchange your own/ If need be occupy a throne/Where nobody can call you crone.

Some have relied on what they knew; /Others on simply being true. /What worked for them might work for you.

No memory of having starred /Atones for later disregard/Or keeps the end from being hard.

Better to go down dignified /With boughten friendship at your side/ Than none at all. Provide, provide!"

I paused. It is a hard cold poem, cynical and true. It is about the emptiness and transience of mere physical beauty, and what it could bring. I drew breath.

"What could it bring me?" I asked myself as much as I asked it of him. "What could it bring me that I do not already have? Would it put me on TV, into newspapers and magazines? I have already done more publicity than I wanted to. Would it get me fabulous jewels? I am deeply conflicted about those I already have! Will it win me friends, have men hanging on my every word, fascinated? I prefer it the way it already is, that they should like me for my wit, be fascinated by my intelligence, intrigued by my theories! Will it win me love? I seem to do all right with the face I already have. You need to get with the times. Sufficient money and surgery can replace you, and devour the soul just as thoroughly."

"What spell was that? Who was this Abishag? The witch who wrote it? What did it do, strengthen you?" demanded Mephisto.

"It wasn't a spell. Come on, now, tempt me further! Bring. It. On." It probably wasn't the best way I could have handled that, but I was buoyant with freedom, freedom from insecurity about my looks. It might not last, but at least for now I had reconciled myself to my self, I had worked through it.

"Not beauty, then? What if I were to tell you why Reed Richards believes you shouldn't marry your Victor?"

"Reed Richards sometimes has an odd kick to his gallop, I'm learning. Besides, it would be much more intellectually satisfying to find out on my own."

"Welllllll—what about your mother? The one who carried you under her heart and gave birth to you. What if I were to deliver her to you, weeping and on her knees, penitent. 'Oh, my darling daughter. I'm so sorry for what I did to you! I didn't know! Oh, my only child, my only love, can you forgive me?'" He mimicked her voice amazingly well.

That silenced me for a moment. "No. I don't want that. It would demean her and it would demean me. And I could never trust her. I wouldn't be able to let her put her arms around me—for fear there would be a knife in her hand."

"And if I were to offer—." His red face leered horribly, and a drop of spittle fell from his lip to the ground, where it ate a hole in the rock. "that your lie should become the truth. That you should be Joviana Florescu, born to Galina, that you should have had leukemia, and been cured of it, after having met Doom just as you said you did? That all the bad things that happened to you in your life should never have happened, that you should have never suffered, never lied to your new friends?"

He was good at this. He was very good at it. "Now you begin to convince me you are the Tempter." I said, after a long pause. "That is truly a temptation. To be rid of my past as if it were an uncomfortable coat that I could take off. But no. I am who I am partly because of my past, and partly despite it. Steel becomes strong only after it goes through a lot of hammering. I would give up too much if I were to agree to that. For all the pain I felt, I would not change a single hour."

"Oh, very good! You hold out remarkably well! I would have thought I should have won by now! Then what if I were to give you the sure ability and knowledge to be a good mother?"

That hit me where I lived. "And then I would die in childbirth, or never get to use it for some other reason. I would be infertile." I retorted, but inside—inside I was torn. I hurt like a bag full of broken glass.

"No. No tricks. You would live to be eighty, and die in your own bed, surrounded by your heartbroken family, your children and their children and their grandchildren, after a long, long happy life."

Fifty-five more years of life—surely that would be long enough to regain my soul somehow. And to be able to give life to Victor's children and mine, without the lurking fear that I would hurt them one day, or every single day….

To see the look in Victor's eyes when he held his new baby, and feel no reservations, no lingering doubts about myself…

I needed help. I needed some spell to get me out of there, but none sprang to mind. I was sorely tempted…

I needed magic now, as I had never needed it before.

"No." I whispered, while my heart inside me said, 'Say yes.'

Hell was psychotropic—it changed to fit what people believed. If I could change my mind, I could change this place…

But to be free of my fear of motherhood!

I needed a savior; I needed an angel. I needed something that all the demons in Hell would quake before. What would they fear most?

Not God…Hell was part of God's plan.

Atheism. Disbelief. Because without belief, they would have no form, no substance, no existence.

I didn't know a single spell that could help me, but I did know magic words.

"Mephisto." I said, my voice strong and clear once more. "I would like to tell you a story."

"A story? What story?" he asked, petulant.

"'The Exiles', by Ray Bradbury." It was written, no, engraved on my brain. It was there. Since I was eleven I had read it over and over, who knew how many times? I only had to open the book of memory, and it was there.

"Their eyes were fire, and the breath flamed out the witches' mouths as they bent to probe the cauldron with greasy stick and bony finger…"

It was a tale born of the place where science fiction meets fantasy. In the future, all books, all stories, all festivals that hint of the horrific, the fantastic, the imaginative, are banned, destroyed, forbidden. Halloween is outlawed. Christmas is illegal. All of these things are bad for people. So all the books are burned, and the people in them, the fictional characters and their creators, long since dead—go to Mars.

And then the mundane, sane, healthy, unimaginative people of Earth decide to go there…

"The captain walked to a port. He smelled of menthol and iodine and green soap on his polished and manicured hands…"

The people from the stories, who exist only on Mars, plan a counterattack. They wage a war of nightmares on the astronauts who are coming. They drive some mad; others to suicide, some sicken and die without any reason at all. But on that ship are the last remaining copies of the books from whence they sprang—and when the books are gone, so are the people in them.

I had a rapt audience. Hell offered few such diversions. All the demons and devils, all the fiends and the imps were listening, and their master as well, for I put feeling into my recital. I acted it out, with my voice, with my hands, with the expressions I put on my face.

Around me, the population of Hell began to change…

"Thin fingers clenched into fists, and a witch screamed from her withered mouth:

'Ship, ship, break, fall!

Ship, ship, burn all!

Crack, flake, shake, melt!

Mummy dust, cat pelt!'"

The rocket lands, and while the people of the stories prepare their attack, unperceived by the astronauts, the astronauts gather wood and build a fire.

The interior of the cavern altered. It became the landscape of Bradbury's Mars.

As a symbol of the old, bad past, the captain puts the evil books on the fire. Screams erupt all around them, from unseen throats, as the people of the books burn to death, too.

"'Why', whispered Smith, disappointed. 'There's no one here at all, is there? There's no one here at all.'

"The wind blew sand over his shoes, whining."

The wind blew sand over my own shoes, whining.

I looked around at an unpopulated Hell, empty but for the flimsy souls of the damned.

I walked over to one, tried to take it by the elbow. "Hey!" I said. "Now's the time to sneak on out, before they re-form!"

It paid no attention to me at all.

"It is still locked in the Hell of its own devising." said Stephen Strange, materializing within a protective sphere, along with Victor. "You cannot free them."

"There is no freedom other than what they can win with their own redemption." added Victor. "That was how my mother ultimately went free. She found sufficient goodness within herself."

"Come now—it is time we left here, and let things return to normal." Doctor Strange and Victor Von Doom reached out, and I took a hand of each.

Later, over restorative cups of herbal tea, the two doctors explained what had happened. It had been real—but they had planned it, and were waiting, watching, in case I got into real trouble. Their help hadn't been needed. My own particular ability had come through.

Doctor Strange looked at me. "Keep on with what you are doing. Keep reading, researching, comparing. I suspect you are on the verge of changing the world—at least the world of magic. And be sure you write everything down!"

"I will." I promised. Then he took his leave, and left the two of us alone.

* * *

A/N: Well,** Chantrea,**we all of us have our strengths and weaknesses. Joviana isn't perfect, and she has her goofy side--I can definitly see her coming out of the ladies room with an unnoticed streamer of toilet paper stuck to her shoe and almost dying of embarrasment when someone calls it to her attention. I thank you for your continued devoted readership. And you really will get an email from me today! 

Nope, **GothikStrawberry,** the 'back to hell" was NOT a metaphor, as you will have discovered by this time...

Hi, **Madripoor Rose!** Yes, the Books of Doom miniseries. I'm really looking foreward to it--but I'm also worried they may have messed it up. I'll be biting my fingernails until it's in my hands.


	31. Chapter 31

"Well, the first thing I shall write in my personal grimoire will be 'All words are magic words.' It may take me some time to get any further than that. I doubt I can rely on always having the perfect poem or story in mind—or on a foe holding still long enough for me to recite it at them. I shall have to come up with a simpler formula." I remarked to Victor, as the door shut behind our guest. "The soles of my shoes are actually melted, see?"

"You have a lifetime in which to achieve it." Victor reassured me. "You may well end up redefining what magic is—certainly you will prove a sorcerer in the true sense of the word—one who goes to the source of magic, and creates new workings. Spellmakers are few and far between. The title of Sorcerer Supreme merely goes to the most powerful and skilled sorcerer of the age. None of the Vishanti were Sorcerers Supreme, in their mortal days—what they were was spellmakers, innovators… I am struck by how well and harmoniously our strengths complement one another. We truly will end up ruling the world."

I was glad to hear him say that, as I had been concerned about Victor's competitive streak. A spouse ought to be a partner, not a rival, after all. But his tone of voice suggested that even if I did wind up becoming a more notable mage than he, it would be fine with him.

"I've been wondering why you gave up ruling the world when you used the Purple Man's power to get it. Janet said you essentially gave it back."

"The reason for that is simple." Victor explained. "It was an empty victory, in the end. The world did not obey me out of choice, but by compulsion, even if it was the gentlest sort of compulsion. I ruled a world of slaves, and my success left a foul taste in my mouth."

"It must have been like being weightless." I said, after I thought for a moment. "Without the resistance of gravity, muscles atrophy and bones become fragile. With no one to oppose you, it would be easy to lose your edge. Not to mention that it must have been pretty boring."

"To be quite honest with you," he admitted, "it was unspeakably dull."

That made me laugh. When I stopped, I asked him, "I am real, aren't I?"

"Are you real? What can you mean by that?"

"You didn't set out to create yourself a companion, and decided to make a tall, dark-haired girl with a healthy libido, a high IQ, and a side serving of art and literature, the result being me? We're so good together, it hardly seems like this can possibly be random."

"No." he said, soberly. "You are real. Even if you were end result of a great deal of genetic engineering and careful conditioning and programming, I could not have done so good a job. I would have left out too many essentials—your wild originality of thought, your propensity to surprise—I might have left out the sense of humor entirely, which would have been a grievous mistake. I had few preconceived notions of what the woman I would marry would be like. I certainly did not anticipate you."

"You know," I said. "That statement, combined with how I felt at dinner when I realized you are proud of me—proud of my wits and my intelligence—only reinforces my plan to try my best to make you feel even half as good. I want to try to talk about what is bothering me—why I am afraid of having children. You deserve no less than the truth from me.

"I'm going to go upstairs and get clean, because my hair and my clothes smell of brimstone. Then I'm going to get into a selection from the things I bought today, put on a sleep mask and get into bed. If you will join me then, and hold me, I think it will be all right."

"Then I will." he told me.

Shower gel and shampoo took care of the stink of Hell, and I towel-dried my hair while I went through my purchases, which Ulrike had already packed for our return to Latveria. I got into a new nightgown—making sure I brushed my teeth first—put on a sleep mask, and turned the lights down to dim.

A few minutes later I heard his tread, and he lay down beside me.

"Are you certain you want to talk about this now?" he asked. "There will be other times."

"No. But that I can talk about it means that it's time I did. Then you can make me feel better afterwards…I have to begin at the beginning, with how I ruined her life before I was even born…"

It was very reassuring to lie there in what was, for me, total darkness, with the warmth and strength of Victor's body at my back. His arm was still around my waist. I could tell him this. I could…

"When she was seventeen, my mother must have been happy. She was going to graduate high school at the top of her class, she had a college scholarship—she was going to study art—her parents were very proud of her, and she had a real boyfriend for the first time. Not a kid—a man. My father. He was twenty-three.

"He was a mechanic, and a very good one. There wasn't enough money to send him to college, and his grades were good but not outstanding. He was a good draftsman. My grandmother had kept renderings he did. Perhaps he might have become an architect, but it just wasn't going to happen. He was a normal, ordinary kind of guy for the sort of town we lived in. He liked hunting and fishing, bowling, beer—and his motorcycle. One February night he when he was riding home, he hit a patch of ice, and his bike hit the side of the Madison Street Bridge. He hit the creek bed below. He died almost instantly.

"I like to think he would have married my mother had he known she was pregnant. I was born in October. By that time, she had been forced to drop out of school, to give up her scholarship, and move out of her parents' house. Her family hadn't quite disowned her, but they made things very hard for her. My hometown was stuck in a time warp—the values and mores of the fifties were alive and well there, twenty-five years ago.

"My father's mother took her in. She was a mine widow—my grandfather was killed in a shaft collapse. My father was her only child. I was—if I was her son's child—the only grandchild she would ever have, so she looked after my mother on that account. Fortunately, I took after him, except for my skin-tone and my hair.

"My mother was almost pathetically grateful at first, but my Grammie was as bossy as she was good-hearted. She criticized what my mother ate, how late she stayed up, and she wouldn't let her smoke, because my mother was pregnant. By the time I was born the tension in the house must have been ferocious…

"My grandmother wanted to adopt me, but my mother refused. A few months after I was born, she took off. Years later, my mother told me it was because, according to my grandmother, she couldn't do anything right, from holding me to sweeping a floor or even stirring a pot of soup. As I said, my grandmother had standards. She was a good woman, but she wasn't always gently spoken. She might have crowded my mother out when it came to me—which was what my mother always said—or she might have stepped in because my mother was too immature to take care of me properly.

"I can only tell you this: from what I know of my mother, if my mother had of necessity been forced to take care of me all on her own, it is very likely that she would have left the infant me in a closed and locked car some summer day, in the full sun, or put the infant me in the bathtub, and gone to get fresh towels, but been distracted by the phone ringing, and talked a good twenty minutes, only to remember me when she hung up. My mother was not a together person. She was…scattered. In a way, it was an act of love on her part to leave me with my grandmother.

"For the first seven years of my life, I only saw her occasionally. She would drop in every few months, for my birthday, for Christmas or Easter—I remember that she would always bring presents, lots of presents— random dime store purchases. She was like a magpie, and bought whatever caught her eye—a copper spoon rest, a sparkly purple candleholder, a pack of plastic barrettes. I don't know what she did during those seven years. She might have lived as cleanly and soberly as a nun. She might have been using drugs and been promiscuous. I doubt she had any full-time job for very long."

"From what you tell me of her, I might almost be moved to sympathy for her—had I not read the police account of what she did to you that precipitated that restraining order." Victor's chest rumbled when he spoke.

"You know, then? How silly, of course you do."

"Yes. How is it that she escaped incarceration—or commitment to a mental institution?"

"Since I wasn't dead, her family—her mother and her brothers—got a lawyer, who worked on the authorities—and on me—until he talked us into a deal. If the charges were dropped, he would agree to undergo psychiatric evaluation, and undergo whatever treatment the doctor deemed necessary. They put pressure on me to go along with it—but I insisted on the restraining order until I got it."

"What was your mother's diagnosis?"

" Depression. Temporary insanity, brought on by my incipient departure. He wrote her a prescription for Prozac and sent her home."

"He was an idiot." Victor bit out.

"I don't know about that. My mother wasn't stupid. Whatever was wrong with her, she could suppress it under pressure. She was extremely good at acting normal when she had to—it was every day life that she couldn't handle. But that comes thirteen years after what I'm telling you about.

"When I was seven, she came back for me. She was getting married to a well-to-do widower with a daughter a few years older than I was. He was a cold man. His daughter was getting ready to hit her teen years and he didn't want to have to deal with the drama, so he remarried a pretty young woman—my mother—who came with baggage—me.

"I didn't want to go and live with them. I wanted to stay with my grandmother. I didn't like the food at my stepfather's, or the unfamiliar bed, or my new sister. I wanted my Grammie, and her good cooking, my own bed, and Pickles, my grandmother's cat. My grandmother did a lot of her own canning, and one summer day when I was four or five, this bone-thin kitten just walked in the back door, bold as you please. She was grey, with a white bib and paws, and her eyes were as green as the pickles we were making, so that was what we called her. I still remember how sharp her bones were, under her fur, when I petted her, that first day, and how her little tummy was round as a tennis ball and tight as a drum after my grandmother got done feeding her a whole can of tuna—and how she purred." I could feel a lump rising in my throat, and for the first time, my tears spilled out.

"For the cat?" asked Victor, puzzled.

"I loved her, and she loved me, she trusted me—she was still alive when my grandmother died, and my mother moved us into her house. The first thing my mother did was to put her in a box, and drive off to the pound. She couldn't stand cats. By the time I worked up enough courage to go to the neighbor who had looked after Pickles while Grammie was in the hospital, and ask him if he'd rescue her—she'd been put to sleep. I let her down—she loved me and she trusted me, and I let her down!" I began to cry in earnest then, great wracking sobs. The mask soaked up the mess.

"It's all right." Victor soothed. "It was not your fault. It was not your doing. You were but fifteen. You did what you could." He held me while I cried.

"I'm sorry." I said, when I finally could. "She was an old cat, she would have died in a few years, any way, it's foolish of me to cry like this over an animal that has been ashes for ten years, now, but…"

"Our relationships with animals, as opposed to those with most people, are uncomplicated by conflicts and negativity. Their devotion and love is pure and unconditional. Why should we be unmoved by their passing?" He brushed my cheek with his fingers. "Do you need a glass of water?" he asked, less rhetorically.

"Please." He got it for me. I sat up, and held out my hand. He put the glass in it, and I drank. "Thank you. You're very, very good to me. I don't know how or why you came to care about me so much. I'm—I'm nothing."

"You—are not—nothing!" he said savagely. "That is not Joviana Von Doom speaking—that is the voice of your mother, or some other, speaking through you. You yourself know this, deep down. You, who can twice beard Hell and live to tell the tale, are not nothing. You, who can so easily outwit and outthink the best of those Magneto has by him, are not nothing. The only creature on the face of this earth who cared enough for me to follow me beyond life, who risked her very soul for me, is not nothing. Put that away and be yourself once more."

I laughed through my tears. "If you say so. It's—hard to banish completely."

"Nevertheless, do it. What of your life with your stepfather and stepsister?"

"There's not much to tell, really. She and I were too different in age to become real friends, he commuted over an hour and a half to work every day, morning and night. I never really knew them. They certainly never knew me. But my mother—that was a different story.

"It was around the time that she married him and I moved in that she started to become a little strange. Whatever was wrong with her began to leak out around the edges. She did things, now and then—get into an argument in the supermarket with someone who picked up an item she was reaching for, or turn up for a social event with her hair all messy, as if she hadn't noticed she hadn't combed it. My step-father could afford a housekeeper, or things might have been worse. She wasn't a good cook, and she wasn't very good at housework.

"But it wasn't so bad. I got to spend the weekends during the school year with my grandmother, andwe went to the lake in the summertime. That was where I met Janet Van Dyne, we were summer friends…

"Then something significant happened. My stepsister turned eighteen and went off to college. Three days later, my stepfather announced that he was divorcing my mother. He had had enough, he said. He had only stuck it out while his daughter was still at home, but there was nothing for my mother to worry about, because she would get alimony.

"She wept and pleaded, but it was no use. He moved out that night. It was then that my mother truly began to deteriorate."

TBC….again.

A/N: Thank you, **IluvBrian710**! Always glad to have a new fan! I do have an original novel that is on hold until I feel I've learned enough to revise/rewrite it and send it out. It was my first novel-length story and it's uneven. In the meantime, I'm honing my skills in fanfic, although if Marvel comics wants me to work for them, I wouldn't say no! ;-)

**Thornwitch:** I haven't decided whether they heard or not...I'll get back to that. Check out If Music, I havea chapter up you might not have seen.

Hi, **Tiktok!** Thank you! Hope you enjoy this one!

Hello, **Madripoor Rose**! I got the first Books of Doom today--it looks beautiful, but it doesn't go into much new territory. I'm not sure what approach they're taking yet--the tragic, flawed Machiavellian hero, or the raving lunatic villain, or somewhere in between...Not much third person dialog from him in it, as yet. I plan to dive into some of Victor's background in the chapters which deal with their return to Latveria and build up to the wedding. Valeria, Victor's childhood sweetheart, and the girl he didn't marry, will definitly put in an appearance.

Hi, **Gothikstrawberry!** I did promise to get into Jo's past--this is the beginning of it!

And **Julietsdaughter**, are you still out there? I've missed you! That goes for you too, **Chantrea Savann!**


	32. Chapter 32

"Had your stepfather no concern for you, a child who had lived under his roof for over six years?" asked Victor.

"If he did, I was unaware of it. He never adopted me. I think he believed that sufficient money absolved him of any personal obligation where my mother and I were concerned. I never tried to contact him. I have never seen him again."

"One divorces wives. One does not divorce children." Victor stated. "He has a great deal to answer for. What happened then?"

"I went to stay with my grandmother for several weeks until the dust settled and their separation was well underway. Just when it seemed as if my mother would go back to her old way of life, she came back for me.

"When she married my stepfather, she had been a young and pretty woman. That had been six years before. She had gained a lot of weight, but when she came to take me to our new home, she had seemed to age almost overnight, and looked as if she was well into middle age—she had a lot of lines on her face that I could not recall having been there before.

"We drove from my Grammie's, which was in the country, through our little town, to an area which was about as rundown and slummy as our town got. During that drive, she was utterly silent. I asked a few questions, but when she refused to answer, I stopped. I could tell something was terribly wrong.

"We parked in front of a converted row house, and went in. It was shabby, and it smelled bad. The paint on the foyer walls was cracked and peeling. Our apartment was up on the second floor—a one bedroom apartment, with yellowed, peeling linoleum on the floor, and the bathroom wasn't attached—it was across the hall. We were going to have to share it with another family. The kitchen was one wall of the room that wasn't the bathroom.

"As I looked around that grim, dismal set of rooms, I could only think that we were now desperately poor. It was years before I found out that my stepfather had been quite generous with his alimony. We were well off by the standards of our area. She had chosen that place freely. 'Do you like it?' she asked me. It was almost the first thing she had said to me that day.

"'No.' I said. I wanted to cry. 'Can't we live with Grammie? She's got room. I know she'd like it if we stayed with her. She would.'

"'Grammie is not your mother. I am. You are mine, and if I have my way, you're never going to see her again. I'm not going to have her coming between us and making you think you don't have to listen to me—and if you don't like it here, that's just too bad, because this is your fault.' That was only the beginning of the tirade that poured out of her in a flood.

"It was the first time she ever spoke to me like that, but it was not the last. We lived in that ugly place until my grandmother died. We had to share the bedroom, although she drew the line at sharing the bed. I would lie awake at night, nearly paralyzed with fear that she would suddenly wake and start yelling again."

I told him about how I had to do the meal preparations, and suffer her accusations that I had put poison in her food whenever she had indigestion, and how she had even phoned the police about it, and how I had wanted to stay in foster care. I told him about how she randomly woke me in the middle of the night to do chores that I could have done hours before had she only told me. I told him about how gradually more and more duties fell to me, until eventually I had to take care of the bills, drawing up the checks for her to sign them. She could not go shopping, as she got into fights in the store.

"Our world shrank down until it seemed as if we were the only two people in it. She had no job, she lived off the alimony. I doubt she could have kept a job had she tried. No visitors ever came to our place, neither the apartment nor my grandmother's house, and I was not allowed to hang out with friends, or go places. I had to come straight home after school, and sit there with her. She would watch me as I read or did homework, silently. Her silences were terrible—because I was always waiting for her to explode again.

"She smoked and drank coffee all day, using the same cup she started with in the morning. There was a brown blob on the outside of it where her lower lip rested, and a little trickle dried down the side. With every refill, she would put in a spoonful of sugar, but not stir it, so when she reached the end of the last cup before bedtime, there was a sludge of coffee grounds and softened sugar at the bottom of it. I remember how she would throw her head back as she let the grainy mess slid down into her mouth, her cigarette glowing in the half-light like one baleful red eye.

"There were good times, now and then—like when we made chocolate chip cookies together, or when we watched 'Pride and Prejudice' on TV. That was her idea, I knew nothing about it until then. She introduced me to it. She loved that story…It wasn't all bad."

"Only most of it." Victor commented.

"Yes…I've come to realize, with the perspective of years, that something was terribly wrong with my mother, something that got worse over time. The reason that more and more chores fell to me was because she was growing less and less capable of performing tasks such as doing the laundry.

"When you think about it—well, you probably haven't done your own laundry in years, so you don't think about it, but there are really dozens of steps involved—noticing that it needs to be done, deciding when to do it, get the clothes together, take them to the machine, sort them—and making a meal is even more complicated. It wasn't as if she didn't know how—she was the only girl in her family, and they took a traditional view of gender roles, so her mother made sure she knew how to cook and clean—she was losing it.

"She needed me. She needed me, because she was increasingly incapable, but at the same time, she acted as if I was doing it to her—as if I was stealing her life skills. She looked at me as if I was a cancer feeding on her body.

"I couldn't wait to get out of there, but I had to. I went through college on the little money my Grammie left me, and I worked to supplement that, too. I got my education, even if I did pick something that wasn't lucrative. Three months after I graduated, I had enough money to get a studio apartment in a nicer neighborhood than the one she had brought me to, eight years before. I told her I was moving out. She ignored it. I thought she would be glad to be rid of me, but then—."

"I can feel that your heart is starting to race under my hand." Victor interrupted. "You can and should have the chance to talk it out and cry it out, but can you defer it for a while that I might ask a few questions of you?"

"I think so." I said.

"I know so. First, if you were seven when your mother married, and she was eighteen at your birth, she was about twenty-five she married, and thirty-one or so when she was divorced, was she not?"

"Yes. Just the age I am now."

"Indeed. It was during her marriage that she began to exhibit aberrant behaviors?" he queried.

"As far as I know, that was when the problems began. I might have been too young to notice before that, or not present when things happened."

"I understand your limitations in that respect. Would you describe her manner as cold, unaffected, when she was not angry?"

"Yes."

"Did she neglect herself, her appearance, her personal hygiene?"

"Dreadfully. In the summertime, she reeked. In the wintertime, she just stank." I replied.

His next question startled me.

"Do you recall if there was anything unusual about your mother's sense of smell?"

"What? Yes—she'd leave a pot of food on the stove until it boiled dry and burned, while I was out raking leaves or something, and I'd come in to a house full of smoke, and she'd swear she didn't smell it for the odor of furniture polish—when there wasn't a trace of polish in the air, and I hadn't used a dust cloth in weeks. She was always doing that, as if her nose was smelling things in an alternative universe. This has some meaning for you, I can tell. What is it?" I asked him

"It confirms what I had been suspecting. Joviana, I hope it will give you some comfort to have her malady given a name." Victor said, his voice very low and serious. "Your mother is schizophrenic."

* * *

A/N: Hello, **Julietsdaughter!** The magic will be taking a secondary role in the story. The people are always my main focus. The wedding will be coming up in a few days, as they fly back to Latveria in the morning, the preparations will go into high gear. As for the baby--well, the revelations of this chapter may explain a great deal of concern.

Hi,** Chantrea Savann**! I'm not sure if I got it or not, but I'll write soon. I hope that you like this chapter, even if it too is sad.

Hello, **Madripoor Rose**! This chapter explains a lot about her mother. The next will delve into the implications...

Hiya, **GothikStrawberry**! Low self-esteem is far too common among girls, but you're right. Joviana has a king-sized case of it, and now you know more of why. I'm not into Manga--at least not yet. You make it sound very intriuging,


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: Schizophrenia dot com was a very valuable resource when it came to writing this chapter, having not only the most up-to-date information about this condition, but member boards for schizophrenics and their families to share their experiences. Any errors here are my own.

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"…Your mother is schizophrenic."

That statement was like the moment when, after staring long and hard, in mounting frustration and annoyance, at an image which has an optical illusion hidden in it, the mental click finally occurs. Everything was revealed.

"Oh." was all I said. "Of course." I added, as an afterthought.

"The sense of smell is the sense most closely linked to the brain." Victor explained. "By some peculiarity, all schizophrenics and all sufferers of Alzheimer's, which is closely related to it, have defective senses of smell. The worse the sense of smell, the worse the mental condition. The areas of the brain which are involved are the frontal lobes, which govern not only the olfactory sense, but also judgment and planning."

Victor continued, "There are other reasons why an individual's sense of smell might be defective, but in combination with other indicators of your mother's condition—paranoia and delusion—as evidenced by her suspicions that you were attempting to poison her—inattention to self-care, increasing inability to perform goal-oriented tasks such as laundry, increasingly irrational behavior—."

"Learning that her sense of smell was off confirmed it." I finished. "I never suspected, never even considered that she might be schizophrenic—and I've studied psychology."

"Perhaps you might have been too closely and too emotionally involved to see it. Your instinct is to avoid your mother as much as possible—and a shrewd instinct it is, under the circumstances."

"Of course," I said again. Then I was seized by a chill. "There is a genetic factor involved." Had I inherited her schizophrenia as well as her skin and her hair?

"There is," he agreed, "but not only does it follow that you might not have inherited it, but there are developmental and environmental factors as well. Prenatal malnutrition is one component—the father's age at conception is another. Men who are over fifty sire schizophrenics far more often than younger men, suggesting that germ cells suffer chromosomal senescence just as ova do. Environmental factors include stresses such as brain damage and drug use. Heavy use of marijuana and other cannabis products before the age of eighteen, while still growing, in other words—seems to triple the chance of developing schizophrenia."

"There, at least, I can claim a clean slate. I never touched an illegal drug in my life." I said. "My father was twenty three when I was conceived, too. Actually—my mother was a late-life baby—not so much an afterthought as an 'Oops!' She was the youngest by eleven years. Grandmother and Grandfather McKenna were married—oh, I don't remember when, but she was about forty-five when my mother was born and he must have been over fifty. He was eight years older than she."

Victor tightened his arm around me reassuringly. "Three reasons to be less fearful, three factors that your mother had which you lack. Less than one percent of the earth's population is known to suffer from schizophrenia, and it is estimated that there are as many more who, like your mother, are undiagnosed. Your risk factor will be higher than the average—." He released me and sat up. I heard him reach for his mask. "Take off your mask and put on a robe. I am going to get my computer. There will undoubtedly be a wealth of information available on-line."

He was correct. There was. With the computer on the bed between us, we soon discovered that my risk factor was about thirteen percent. If, instead of my mother, it had been a sibling of mine who came down with schizophrenia, the risk factor jumped to seventeen percent—which suggested that, like hemophilia and sickle-cell anemia, schizophrenia was a condition for which one had to inherit bad genes from both parents.

"Do you recall if any of your mother's brothers suffered from mental illness?" Victor asked.

"My oldest uncle committed suicide, but he was in the Vietnam War, so schizophrenia may not have been involved." I replied.

"It is still an indicator of mental illness." he pointed out.

I found a support board for the caregivers and family members of schizophrenics, and began skimming through the biographies and blogs.

Most of the adult children of schizophrenics, like me, had schizophrenic mothers—not because there were more women with the condition, but because it showed a decade later in life for women than it did for men—in the late twenties to early thirties as opposed to the late teens and early twenties. Most male schizophrenics never married.

"This is—this is astonishing. All of these people—their stories are my story." I said. I began to tear up again.

I was not alone. I was not the only one who had seen her mother disintegrate. I was not the only one whose mother had killed her pet. I was not the only one whose mother screamed and swore at salespeople. I was not the only child who had become the mother to her mother. I was not the only one whose mother had tried to kill her…

"You speak of your father's mother as 'Grammie'" Victor observed as I read, "but you referred to your mother's parents as 'Grandmother and Grandfather McKenna.' I take it that you were not close to them."

"No. I didn't even meet them until I was seven, when my mother got married—and when she got divorced, that was the end of any friendly relationship they had with us…When it happened, and they were forced to get involved afterwards, that is, my grandmother and my uncles, since my grandfather had passed away by then—they were angry.

"They were angry at me. Grandmother McKenna said I brought it on myself, because if I hadn't insisted on moving out, my mother never would have done…what she did. She said that to me while I was still in the hospital."

"I like your relatives less and less the more I learn about them." Victor remarked. "Were they aware of your mother's mental and emotional difficulties?"

"In our community, it was impossible not to be. Even though there was little direct contact, there was plenty of communication. It was a small town, after all." I replied.

"Nor was your stepfather any prize." he said

Then Victor reached over, across the computer, and tipped my chin up with a finger, so I was looking him in the eyes. "Now. Listen to me. Fix what I am about to say in your memory. Repeat it to yourself, frequently, as you have recourse to it.

"Your mother's dementia was not your fault. You did not bring anything on yourself by wanting to leave her. You did not abandon her. You saved yourself—you saved your mind, your spirit, your very life by leaving.

"You were burdened with the supervision and care of a dangerous and insane woman at an age when you still needed supervision and care. Your stepfather forced that burden on you, and it was a grievous, a criminal wrong that he did you thereby.

"Your mother's family knew she was neither well nor normal, and they did nothing. They did not investigate or intervene. They did not care enough about either of you to be bothered. That, too, was a grievous and criminal wrong. They then compounded it by casting the blame on you when she tried to kill you.

"Be angry. Be filled with hatred.

"But direct it where it belongs—at them, and not at yourself."

It seemed to me as if I had been waiting at least half my life to hear those words, and when at last I did, I broke down. I shoved the computer aside, buried my head against his shoulder, and he held me in the strong circle of his arms as I cried and cried, until my entire being was wrung dry.

* * *

A/N: No more shout outs or review replies to be found here--it is now forbidden. We are to use the review reply system they have now set up. **GothikStrawberry, Dreaming of Everything**--I have sent you replies through it. Did you recieve them?

Also, --this is for all my readers--I am comsidering cutting the more mature material, restructuring and rewriting the story until it qualifies for a Teen rating, and so that it still makes coherent sense. If you would miss the mature stuff or the story structure as it exists, I can direct you to anothersite where it would still be as it was. What do you think of this notion?


	34. Chapter 34

Eventually I was all cried out.

As I relaxed and wiped my face, Victor commanded, "Do not apologize. Moreover, I forbid any tedious or laughable questions such as 'Does this change anything between us?' or 'Do you want to back out now, knowing what you know?' Given that you are willing to love me sight unseen, how can I not be as unconditionally accepting as you are? Do you not think that I, with the resources at my command—including my own unsurpassed intellect—would not devote what ever it took to effect a cure, should it be necessary? When it would it be the happiness and wellbeing of my wife and my children at stake?"

"Well, then I won't say any of those things." I said. "But to think that the only reason why I was afraid for my future children was because I know that the abused often become abusers. That seems almost trivial now."

"Let me add another reason not to fear. You have none of the known genetic factors that cause schizophrenia." said Victor. "I have read over your genetic profile, and know this to be true. You have not only my word for this, but Magneto's. Did he not read it out loud? Had he come across any of the flawed genes, he would have announced it to all within earshot, just as he did your other tendencies."

"Yes," I admitted. "However, you said 'known genetic factors'. 'Known' would seem to be the cogent word. That suggests there are genetic factors as yet unknown."

"True—yet the geography of the genome is no longer terra incognita. More is being learned of the genetic code every day. It will be understood within our lifetimes."

"It would help if we could find out if my mother has one or more of the known factors—which reminds me. When you said that I lacked some of the developmental and environmental contributors that my mother had, you implied that you knew my mother had used marijuana. I don't know if she did or didn't. Where does that information come from?"

"I made discreet inquiries into her past sometime ago. Given that the records in question are not available on line, it was time-consuming to find them out, but discover them I did. Your mother was the one who told you that her life was idyllic before she became pregnant with you, was she not?" Victor asked.

"Yes—when she was in the mood to tell me how much better her life would have been had she not had me."

He paused. "She misrepresented her life to you. Whether she told outright lies or a recounted a delusion born of her schizophrenia, I cannot tell, but her school records do not bear out her claim of being a good student—and in her junior year, when she was sixteen, she was suspended for marijuana possession. At age twenty, she was arrested for the same offense, although it did not come to trial."

"I wonder how much else of what I thought I knew—about my family, about myself—is similarly false." I rested my head on my hand. All this emotion was tiring…

"I fear it is beyond my power to answer that. There is one thing I have noted—for all that you have said, for all that you have learned—never did you say that you did not want children—only that you were afraid of having them." Victor observed.

"I know. If you had said you absolutely did not want children, now or ever, I would have cried just as hard, only in private—and it would have been grief and relief intermingled. I do want to have a family. I always have. I'm just not sure I have the coping skills, with or without schizophrenia."

"I do not expect you to do this alone, for what that is worth." Victor pulled me back against him so I rested against his chest as if he were the back of a chair, putting an arm around me. "I was raised by men from the time that I was four—first by my father, and then by Boris, so I have firsthand knowledge of the importance of a father's role. I have the means to hire any number of nursery maids, nannies, governesses, tutors, and security forces, as well—and they will be necessary."

"Oh?" I asked.

"As eventful as these past few days have been, I fear they will be all too representative of our lives together. The Richards' approach to childcare provides an example of what not to do—which is to rely too heavily on the whims of fortune. Susan Richards is their son's primary care-giver—and she is too frequently absent on one of their adventures or missions. They absolutely require full-time help around the clock, but they lack the wherewithal or the foresight to find and pay competent caregivers."

"I thought I saw a nanny in the background when I was there today." I commented.

"No. She may have been a sitter, but since the death of Agatha, the elderly witch who acted as a nanny for a time, they have relied upon the services of Crystal, the Inhuman, who lives with her people on the far side of the moon—."

"That strikes me as an impractical commute, especially in an emergency." I frowned.

"Quite. Moreover, it is as dangerous an environment as the Baxter Building. Furthermore, Crystal is married to Magneto's son Quicksilver, and they have a small child of their own, a daughter. Their marriage is troubled, and Crystal actively seeks consolation elsewhere. Not, I think, a desirable trait to have in a care provider." Victor said. "The Richards' other sitter is Alicia Masters, an artist of some talent, who is Benjamin Grimm's inamorata—a young woman of character, certainly, but she, too, is less than ideal, as she is completely blind."

"That does not sound good. With the potential for trouble afforded by the equipment they have up there—and it didn't look childproofed—and various enemies likely to attack at any given moment—."

"Franklin Richards is in danger at every hour of the day." pronounced Victor. "He has wound up in the hospital on seventeen separate occasions."

"They're lucky that the child protective services haven't taken him away from him long ago! Ohhh—how could they be so phenomenally stupid?"

Even as I asked it, I knew the answer. The Laws of Heroics. A child in danger is a suspenseful, exciting, dramatic situation, so naturally he must be in danger as often as possible, even if his otherwise loving parents have to become blinder than Alicia Masters could ever be.

"I, too, have asked myself that question. I cannot fathom why allegedly caring parents would repeatedly and constantly endanger their offspring. I intend to profit from their bad example, and do otherwise." Ah…now I saw it. It was Victor's competitive streak. He was going to bring the same approach to fatherhood that he did to everything else—he was determined to be the best—and much better at it than Reed Richards.

That was an intriguing thought. Was he starting by being the best possible husband? I remembered some of the hints Sue had dropped as to Reed's shortcomings as a husband and father. He was prone to be forgetful, neglectful, absentminded, inattentive, and uncommunicative—he forgot birthdays and anniversaries, and to get his attention one had to hit him in the head with a brick. A very big brick. Sometimes the brick was named Ben Grimm.

It made sense. Victor was, (at least so far), being the exact opposite of all those things. I would have to think about this. It wouldn't be fake on his part—he would mean it. Interesting…

"Were you responsible for any of those hospital visits?" I asked.

"I was not. I would not endanger the life of a child. He is safe from me—at least until he reaches his majority."

"Why did I even ask? But what if he tries to date our teenage daughter?" I asked.

The look he turned on me was full of outrage. "That whelp of Richards will not be allowed within five kilometers of any daughter of ours!"

His reaction was so like what I had imagined earlier that I had to laugh.

"Goading me again. How many decades of this must I look forward to?" he grumbled, his humor returning. "I am glad you are feeling better."

"I am." I admitted. "It is a comfort to have a name to put to my mother's condition. I may be entering the danger zone of age, apparently, but I have the advantage, not only of having you on my side, but of knowing what might happen, and why—although any voices in my head might actually be real and not a symptom of schizophrenia, given how many telepaths there are around.

"And—right now, everything is all right. I am well. I'm happy. I have you. What might happen—has yet to happen. All we ever really get is now—the present moment. And at this moment, I am as happy as I have ever been in all my life." I told him, and it was true.

* * *

A/N: Then perhaps I should re-work it and list it as well as this version. Kind of how Blockbuster cleans up movies so they don't have to check IDs. Hmmmm...I wonder if Marvel would react to an e-mail campaign telling them they had to read my stuff... 


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: Mature content chapter warning...

* * *

The nature of Victor's embrace changed subtly, going from reassuring to caressing. 

"Changing the subject, are we?" I asked, as he kissed my neck—warm lips and cold metal nibbling gently along the curve to my shoulder.

"You did say that I should make you feel better afterwards." he pointed out. "I know my duty."

I could feel his burgeoning erection pressing against my leg through the robe. I reached back and squeezed him gently. "And he agrees with you, too?"

"Of course." he replied. "Think of the years he's been left out in the cold… Where did your mask get to?" he asked.

"Victor—if you've no objection, this time I'd like it if you kept your mask on and I left mine off. I'd—I'd like to see your eyes."

His hands stopped moving. "This is the first time you have ever mentioned my mask." he said, with an intellectual detachment in his voice.

"Well, it's not as if it could have gotten there by accident, like a piece of spinach caught between your teeth. It seemed rude of me to comment on it." His erection was softening—obviously this was not a good idea. "But if you wouldn't enjoy it, of course I won't insist."

"My concern in this is entirely for you." Victor said. "I know you have seen photographs of me as I was. I was handsome, before… In the dark, you can imagine the face I once had, the face I ought to have. Far better that should be what you picture as you come, rather than this shell of metal or the ruin it hides."

"Any short answer I could make to that could be misconstrued, so it will have to be a long one" I said, shifting off his lap and turning around to face him. His computer was still on the bed—I bought some time to think in while I shut it and put it on the bedside table.

"I think it is my turn to reassure you." I said, as I turned back to him. "You didn't have to order me not to peek at your face, because I would never violate your privacy, your dignity that way. I love you and respect you." I spoke from my heart; I spoke the truth.

"I do not doubt that." he answered. "It could be that you would be unable to feel desire for me as you do now, if you were to know what horror it is that kisses you."

"Somehow I feel as though we've drifted into some version of The Phantom of the Opera." I observed. "And I don't sing soprano." I looked deep into the eyes behind that iron mask, put my hands on his shoulders. "If you do not want me to see your face, now or ever, that is all right with me. I don't know if I agree with you about the effect it would have on me, but I don't need to see it to love you.

"Victor, I care for you as you are, not as you were, not as you should have been, had you never been scarred—and since I love you as you are, I love the man you have become as a result of those scars. Do you not think that you have grown into a different man than you would otherwise have been—a stronger man, a better one, for all that you have undergone? I didn't know you before. I might not even have liked the young man in those photographs. He looks a little too aware of how handsome he is."

He swiftly crushed me against him. "How?" he mumbled into my hair. "How can you make me almost glad that should have happened? All words are magic words, you say. Your words are, to be sure…"

"What surprises me is that you don't question my honesty." I confessed. "I would have thought you would need convincing."

"You convinced me already." he said, letting me go, but only far enough to kiss me. "For all the mysteries that you are, yet I am certain of you." He kissed me again, that deep, absorbing kiss that seemed to affect every nerve ending in my body.

What ever I had said to him in hell must really have been something…

"However, with the mask in place, my…repertoire is going to be somewhat limited. For example, I doubt I could reciprocate in full what you did for me earlier." He was helping me out of my robe as he said it.

"That will give me something to look forward to another time," I said, as he took off his own robe. His body was as beautiful to see as my hands had told me, his skin the color of faintly tarnished silver. His erection was at about half mast as he stretched out next beside me, its head bobbling heavily. A bed with the two of us in it wasn't just a bed: it was a banquet table. It was the entire world.

I wound my arms around his neck and kissed him, trying to put all the thoroughness into it that he did. He returned it as he sent a hand wandering over my body, to tickle and pull at a nipple with teasing, maddening slowness. That was how we made love this time, slowly, languidly, sweetly—that is, until it was his turn. He dexterously brought me to orgasm with his hand before he entered me, and then made sure I reached it again…

"I have to be sure you don't feel shortchanged." he explained. "After all, you gave me such pleasure earlier that I must return it. Here--." He drew my hand down to feel his hardness. "Feel this bold fellow?"

"Yes. He's very friendly." The head was again a deep purple, so swollen the skin was taut and shiny. A plum warmed by the sun…

"Yes, as a large dog is friendly. He's best kept in check, lest he be too boisterous when demonstrating his affections, especially since you are still getting used to him."

"Then you must give me another lesson." I laughed.

"And so I shall." With that, he hoisted my ankles up over his shoulders, and drove the 'fellow' home. Now I understood why he had made sure of my pleasure beforehand. This time, he did not play with my clitoris—he was too busy. All I could do was hang on and ride out the storm. His chest was heaving when he was done, and he dropped my legs and drooped down on to me very slowly. I wrapped my arms around him as he recovered.

"I was not too rough, was I?"

"No. I'm not sure you could have gotten any rougher without going over, though. I'm fine." I told him.

"Good."

"I am puzzled, though. Every modern romance novel I ever read promoted simultaneous orgasm through missionary position intercourse as being not only possible, but spontaneous, and the only really fulfilling way of doing it. This does not match reality."

"D. H. Lawrence has a great deal to answer for. He began that myth in "Lady Chatterley's Lover". On the other hand, he has to be credited with pointing out that women can and should take pleasure in sex. Perhaps the two balance one another out."

"Maybe…" It was definitely time to go to sleep.

This time it was I who woke in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep right away. I had been having a dream, one which was partially a memory. It was of a night in Latveria when I had walked in on Tony Stark while he was working his way through a bottle of plum brandy.

Tony Stark, the owner of Stark Industries, (which was going to go bankrupt in a few years once all movies and all older television shows became pay-per-view via the Internet 24/7) was the costumed adventurer Iron Man. He and Victor had a rivalry going which was only eclipsed by the competition between Victor and Reed Richards. Every few months, the two would wind up going head to head over who had the best new toys.

This was after a trip the two made back in time via Victor's time machine. I was unclear on what had happened, but whatever it was, it had sparked off a drinking binge in Stark, and that was not good. He was an alcoholic.

On that occasion, when I walked through the Great Hall at the wrong moment, and saw him by the light of the fire blazing in the enormous hearth, staring at the table where his helmet sat next to the brandy bottle, he had said, more to himself than to me, "I don't know why I do this."

"The drinking or the heroics?" I asked him, but he did not hear, or he acted as if he didn't.

In my dream, he had said, "It'll be your turn soon." in reply.

I knew what that meant, because I knew why he was never able to stay sober for very long. The Laws of Heroics included the Law of Angst. 'All heroes must have a source of angst. Angst is interesting, therefore all heroes must have recurring bouts of whatever provokes it.'

That was why Tony Stark always fell off the wagon eventually. That was why Ben Grimm stayed the Thing—despite the best efforts of Reed Richards and the many others who had done their best to cure him. Oh, sometimes he gained the ability to transform back and forth between rock and flesh, or even was made entirely human again, but he always went back to being the Thing. Angst.

My chances of developing schizophrenia weren't thirteen percent. They were one hundred percent, because it would be a cause for angst not only in me, but in Victor. Any cure would only be temporary, only a palliative—until, perhaps, our children were old enough to show signs of it, because that would only mean more juicy angst.

Now I had to kick my plans into high gear, and get our universe working randomly. It was my best chance for remaining sane. I could work the Laws of Heroics to predict events and influence their outcome, but I was also bound by them.

I needed Victor's active help. To get that, I needed proof positive, and all my best, most concrete proofs were hidden in the attic of my grandmother's house, where my mother presumably still lived. "Oh, shit." I whispered to myself, so as not to wake Victor, who snored gently beside me. "Oh, shit."


	36. Chapter 36

I did get back to sleep, however, and when I woke again, presumably it was morning. I still had my sleep mask on and Victor was still there in bed with me, so I couldn't check immediately. Instead I stretched and snuggled up to him.

He drew in a long deep breath, and said, "Good morning. How is it with you this morning?"

"Good morning. I'm very, very, well, thank you… Truly." I said lazily. Something occurred to me. "The wedding—our wedding—is in three days!"

"So it is. Given all the trouble and preparations that are going into it, I believe we had best return home, lest we miss it. No doubt there will also be varied matters concerning it to which we must attend personally— surely your dressmaker will want to fit your gown, for one."

"Yes, I expect so…" We got up and got moving. The embassy kitchen sent up breakfast, and after the previous night and its various activities, I found that I had a healthy appetite.

During breakfast, I suddenly remembered something. "I mentioned that I got you a present yesterday," I told Victor, " and then I forgot about it. I'll be back in a moment."

I found the box in which his robe was packed, and returned. "It isn't your wedding present," I explained, "That has yet to be bought. This is—just because. I know it's too heavy for this time of year, but in only five short months, that cashmere lining will be perfect."

"Thank you," he said, running his hand down the lapel and then feeling the lining. "The fabrics are so fine, and the color…Thank you very much, my dear." He stood up and slipped it on. "The fit is as good as if you had taken my measure."

"But I did, the other night, remember? I set out to memorize you with my hands. I knew just how broad your shoulders are, and they were the most important part of it." I smiled. "I'm glad you like it."

"I do, very much. Come November, I will benefit from it greatly. You are not the only one who has a present to give this morning—do you not see the box at your place? It is a mere trifle, something to wear on more informal occasions. I thought of you when I saw it was up for sale."

Uh-oh. There was a small and badly battered jewelry box beside my juice glass that hadn't been there before. I picked it up, privately wondering why it was in such poor condition until I opened it. Only Victor would call an original, Belle Epoch Lalique pendant a 'trifle'. That it was still in its original box made it all the more valuable.

It wasn't very big, and there were no enormous stones in it. Lalique had been an artist and a craftsman, fascinated by beauty rather than by mere cost. He had preferred glass to diamonds, because he made the glass himself, rather than trust to the vagaries of nature which created diamonds. This pendant was more glass than gold.

It was a little mid-summer twilight landscape. A moon of actual moonstone hung over some mountains and shimmered on the waters of a tranquil lake. In the foreground there were cattails and Queen Anne's lace, and another moonstone hung from the bottom, as if the lake had let fall one moon-enchanted drop. The technique Lalique had used was plique a jour, which meant it was open at the back, like a tiny stained glass window. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen in my life, and I said so.

"It's perfect. It's just amazing. Thank you, Victor."

"You're quite welcome, my dear."

It had probably cost a lot more than I would be comfortable thinking about, but in comparison to the jewels that were locked up back at home, it was bound to be inexpensive. I could wear it without feeling like I was saying, 'Let them eat cake' when the poor complained that they had no bread, as Marie Antoinette reportedly said. I would get a lot more pleasure out of this than I would from the other pieces.

"Now," Victor said, laying a slice on smoked salmon on a piece of brown bread, "have you considered what you want done about your relations?"

"Not in any detail. I had been planning on ignoring their very existence unless they start trying to claim me. Since Malice learned certain details about my life while she was in my head, there is a distinct possibility she may actively hunt them down and tell them. They may identify me on their own, though. It would make for a complicated situation if the media takes them seriously—especially my mother."

He looked at me meaningfully. "It need not be a complicated situation. You have but to say the word, and they shall be obliterated. Their behavior demands redress." He said it as simply as if he were offering me the orange marmalade, and took a bite of his open-faced salmon sandwich.

He meant it, too.

That was chilling. He really wouldn't see that there was anything wrong with having my entire family (minors excluded) killed. For Victor, there were opponents, such as Reed Richards, there were people for whom he was responsible, such as the people of Latveria, there were a few—extremely few—people for whom he truly cared, Boris and myself—and then there was the rest of the world, who could be crushed like cockroaches.

It would not bother his conscience for even a moment, even a flicker.

However, it would bother mine. "No." I said, carefully, while he chewed. "My mother casually disposed of my grandmother's cat, uncaring that she would be euthanized, merely because she didn't like her. I like to think that I am a saner, healthier person than my mother, perhaps a better one. It would be very hard for me to retain the moral high ground if I were to do to them what she did to Pickles."

"As you wish." Victor said, indifferently.

"Besides," I surprised myself by going on, "My relationship with my mother wasn't just bad relationship—it was the last in a series of bad relationships—my mother's relationship with her family, and, I suspect, even Grandmother McKenna's relationship with her mother." My mouth twisted, and all of a sudden I was on the verge of tears again. I continued.

"I want to break this chain of hurt, and I think perhaps the place to start is not with my children, but with my mother. I need to care about her, because I doubt anyone else does. I need to love her—at least enough to somehow see to it that she is correctly diagnosed and gets the help she needs. I doubt anyone else will, if I don't." This was coming from somewhere deep in me. I had not known I was going to say it. There was more

"It will be difficult, especially since I never want to be in the same room with her. The healthiest thing that I can do—for her and for me—is to stay away from her, because the schizophrenia didn't create all the hostility and resentment she has for me out of nothing. The seeds were there already—her mental condition made them grow to monstrous size. Besides, I made my choice. I walked away."

"Once again, you surprise me." said Victor. "Another insight?"

"Yes, but one born from the heart alone. My intellect stood aside for it, this time. And, just to complicate things, there are some papers and documents which I hid in my grandmother's house which I absolutely must get back. I said I had no proofs of my theories concerning the Laws of Heroics. I lied, because I don't have access to them. There are the materials which first led me to make certain conclusions, and then there are the items which proved them to me beyond a doubt."

"Do you need them so desperately? Can they not be duplicated somehow, reassembled from the sources you consulted before?" he asked.

"I doubt it. They were one-of-a-kind discoveries. In any case, there isn't time…" I explained the Law of Angst to him, and how it applied to us.

"I, like Doctor Strange, am inclined to dismiss these—until I think of how uncannily well it explains certain mysteries. I don't know what will come of this, but of one thing I am certain."

"What is that?" I asked.

"That you will need the services of a very good and very clever lawyer. Fortunately, I know of just the man."


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: Robert Angevin and his wife and son are original characters of mine from an unpublished novel. They were getting bored waiting for me to re-write them, so I decided to give them a supporting role here. They have been renamed for this appearance. I considered using Matt Murdock, AKA Daredevil for Joviana's lawyer, but I decided it just wouldn't work, given Victor's (not entirely undeserved) reputation. He wouldn't take the job willingly, and would perform only reluctantly if coerced.

* * *

Victor's motives in recommending Robert Angevin as my lawyer were suspect the moment I saw him. Not because he looked about seventeen years old at first glance, which he did—that was because he had very light, thick hair and was on the short side of medium height—but because he had brought along an infant in a snuggly sling. 

"His name's Hugo, after my wife's late father," Angevin explained, stroking the baby's flaming red hair. "A charmer, isn't he?" The father was blond and blue-eyed, with the look of a warrior angel from a Renaissance painting; the son had bright red hair and brown eyes, and was a little cherub. He looked so much like his father I almost expected to see him in a miniature business suit.

"He's adorable, but you knew that already. Do you bring him along to all your meetings with your clients, or was this just for my benefit?" I asked.

"Only when the client is female." He grinned. "Ella—my wife—is at a medical conference out of town. Actually, two of her cousins are staying with us while they go to college, and they help out with child care, so I could have left him at home. The real reason I brought him was to underscore to your husband that I had accommodated him on a moment's notice at some inconvenience and would expect to be compensated accordingly." he confided. "Now, how can I serve you?"

Victor had sent him an instant message requesting his presence, and Angevin had arrived before I was finished getting dressed.

"It's a long story." I began.

"They usually are." he said. "Before you get into it, I have to say I am glad you're your husband absented himself from this conference. I am here at his request, but not as his representative. I am here as your lawyer—not his—not Latveria's—but yours. Anything you say will be held as strictly confidential, whether or not you choose to retain me or I choose to represent you. You can speak to me freely."

"Thank you…" I explained about how I had wanted to drop off the face of the earth, and what I was escaping from. I gave him the details about how I became Joviana Florescu, and my desire to keep my former life a secret. I told him about my mother and her condition, about Galina Florescu, whose heart I was wary of breaking, about not wanting to admit to Susan, Janet and Jen that I had made up the story of how Victor and I had met when 'I' was suffering with leukemia, and that I had told the same story to Sixty Minutes. I covered my need to see to it my mother got the help she needed, my suspicion that I would be identified, and I wrapped it all up by then telling him about the items I had hidden in my grandmother's attic, and that I needed them desperately.

"Whew!" he whistled, when I was done. "Fortunately, I enjoy a challenge."

"Is it hopeless?" I asked.

"No, not at all—at least, not the parts that have to do with keeping your former life a secret. I will need access to all the information you mentioned—the police reports, school records, and such—both for your old life and your new."

"You shall have them." I told him.

"That's great. I will, should the occasion arise, go to Pennsylvania and deal with your mother, her lawyer and her family. I will explain to them that it is to their best advantage that you should not be the long-lost daughter." He

"I don't want to pay them to shut up and go away—once you start paying someone for their silence, it never ends."

"I agree. There will be no payment of extortion. I will reason with them." His little boy was gnawing on a bright plastic toy, and suddenly threw it across the room. "

What, is no one paying any attention to you?" he addressed the baby. "Would you like to hold him?" he asked me, standing up. A clever man indeed--he had seen me looking at Hugo. "He's teething, so he does bite—but not very hard, and he's had all his shots."

"I'm not used to holding babies," I confessed as he lifted his son out of the sling and handed him to me.

"It's not that difficult," he promised me. "Plus, he's past the stage where you have to support his head at all times. Just put your arm like so and--." I had my arms full of baby. I hadn't held a baby since before my mother divorced, when she was still on speaking terms with her family, and that had been a new baby cousin, Uncle Peter's—or was it Uncle Timothy's?—newborn daughter.

"This is something I don't often share with people—especially not new clients— but this has a bearing on your situation. Hugo here was genetic risky. Any child Ella and I might have would be at risk of getting some bad alleles from us." Angevin looked at me with sympathy and kindness. "You see, I had this brother who was much older than I am. He's dead now, but while he was alive, he was a terrible womanizer. Had been since he was in high school. He had several illegitimate children that no one in our family knew about.

"I mentioned that this little guy—don't eat her blouse, now!" Hugo had a grip on my blouse, and was gumming it. He looked up at me with eyes like rootbeer candies, and gurgled. "I said he was named for my wife's late father. So he was, but Hugo senior was her adoptive father. We found out—after we'd fallen in love and gotten engaged—that Ella's genetic father was my brother Edward. Naturally, it was a terrible shock to us."

"So I should imagine! But you stayed together and got married anyway? Isn't that—?"

"Illegal? That's why we now have Australian citizenship. It's legal for an uncle to marry a niece down there."

"I was going to say, incest. And creepy."

"There are varying degrees of incest. Ours isn't in the first degree—that's parent-child, brother-sister. Those are frowned on everywhere. We're in the second degree, along with first cousins. And for the creepy factor—We had no idea we were related any more than any two other random single people would be. It isn't as if I was molesting her when she was a child—we met as consenting adults, complete strangers to each other. It did take a lot of soul-searching, but why should our hearts be broken just because my late brother was an asshole? Yes, conceiving him was a risk, but everything in life is a risk. Getting out of bed in the morning is a risk. Crossing the street with him in his snuggy is a risk. You only get one life, after all."

"As far as you know." I corrected him. "How did you handle the genetic aspect of it?"

"My wife went in for testing nearly every day to be sure he was developing normally. They ran every test known to science and probably came up with a few new ones while they were at it. But as you can see, he turned out fine. He's even advanced for his age."

I was sure every parent says, or at least thinks that. "Thank you, Mr. Angevin."

"Call me Robert, please. Now—about those documents in your grandmother's attic. Might a discreet burglary take care of the matter? I ask purely for the purposes of information as of course I would never violate the law in such a manner." The twinkle in his eye said otherwise.

"I am afraid not. You see, there are several tons of papers stored in that attic—old newspapers, magazines, books—you name it. I hid them in the manner of Poe's Purloined Letter—no one would find them unless they knew exactly what they were looking for—and the nature of the information in them is so sensitive that I dare not trust anyone with that knowledge. It is as volatile as nitroglycerine. I would scarcely even trust Victor to review them without being there to interpret what is in them for him."

He whistled again. "That bad, huh? Perhaps I can arrange to buy the house and its contents through a third party…"

"I fear my mother might not be rational enough to see the advantage of selling. To her it would be the place she has lived for ten years—a place she knows, a place she feels relatively safe."

"Still…." He pondered. We discussed strategy (and babies) for another quarter of an hour before Hugo got fretful and his father took him back. "I will take my leave of you now, but we'll be seeing each other in a few days." Robert Angevin assured me.

"We will?" I asked.

"Yes. Ella and I have genuine gilt edged wedding invitations to your wedding. Perhaps I should have mentioned that Victor and I took a course together in college—Cinema in the Silent Era, It was a distribution requirement. We both sat in the back and radiated hostility, which was our common ground…"

That was interesting, but I couldn't see any signs of it in the grown man before me. He was happy, well-adjusted—altogether too nice and sweet a man to be a lawyer, let alone the sort of lawyer I required. What was Victor thinking?

I found out not long afterward, when Jen called to get my email address. I was trying to get everything together for our trip back to Latveria when the call came in. "Good morning…" We chatted briefly, and before hanging up, I tossed in, as an afterthought. "Jen, do you know, or know of, a lawyer named Robert Angevin?"

"The Prince of Sharkness? You better believe it. He's notorious. Why?"

"He's coming to the wedding, along with his wife. Why is he notorious?"

"He's reduced opposing attorneys to breaking down in tears in the bathroom—hardened attorneys who have been in practice longer than he's been alive—and I'm talking about men. I heard he sold a client down the river because he had proof the man was guilty, but insisted on pleading innocent—and you just don't do that! Why is he invited?"

"He and Victor have known each other since college." I felt better about having Angevin on my side now. He might be able to cope with my mother's family after all.

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me. His wife is nice, I hear—she comes from this big winemaking family in Italy, but she became a doctor."

We exchanged a few other pleasantries and hung up. Not five minutes later, I got a call from Janet. "How tall are you, exactly?" she demanded immediately.

"Five-eleven in your measurements. Why do you want to know?"

"Five-eleven…Because I'm going to send you a whole rack of clothes. My designs, of course. It won't cost you a penny, either."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it's just too perfect! Do you realize that in only three short days, you and I are going to have the exact same initials? J. V. D. Janet Van Dyne—Joviana Von Doom. You may be the only other woman in the world who can wear my signature print and have it be a perfect monogram! Plus, I'm just a little bitty thing. You have that height and those marvelous supermodel legs. Anything I put on you will work."

"Janet, I don't want to reject you, but I am not a model and I don't want to do advertisements or endorsements."

"That's fine with me. Hang on to that attitude—indifference drives them mad. Like Greta Garbo and her 'I vant to be alone.' With your accent—even though it's a bit different than hers—you've got that mysterious cachet about you. No, all I want you to do is come to my next showing, the one at the Guggenheim. It's in eight weeks. I'm going to put you front and center—two seats. You can bring whoever you like—although I have to say I can't see Victor at a fashion show."

Neither could I. I would probably bring Galina, provided the house of cards that was my life hadn't come tumbling down by then. "I'll bring my mother. She's very chic. Why do you think my presence will help your business any? I'm not known for anything but who I'm marrying."

"That's enough! Darling—," her voice took on fake tones, "right now you are the most fascinating woman in the world. You're going to be big. Much more than TomKat. Much, much bigger than Brangelina. You're marring Victor Von Doom!"

"Bigger than who and who? And yes, I had noticed who I was marrying."

"Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are TomKat, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie make Brangelina. You don't get out of Latveria much, do you, sweetie?"

"Happily, no. All right, Janet. I will, if I possibly can, come to your fashion show. But I insist on paying for any of the clothing I might choose to keep, and I'm not going to promise to wear only your pieces. My mother and I have been going to our dressmaker for years now, and I don't want to hurt her feelings. She's become a friend."

"Oh, you don't have to pay. I'll never miss them." chirped Janet.

"I insist."

"If you must…" After a few more minutes, I got off the phone, just in time for a call from Sue.

"Good morning," she said. "I gave Jen and Janet your number. I hope that was okay."

"It's perfectly all right. I talked to both of them already. Janet wants me to go to her next show…She is most tenacious when she wants something, is she not?"

"Like a bulldog. I mean in a nice way, of course. I just saw something in the paper—it says you're flying the Washington Shakespeare Theatre company over to do 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' as part of the festivities?"

"That's right." I replied.

"Ooo—I can see some trouble there. I love Shakespeare, and Reed's no problem—if he's bored he just does quantum physics in his head—but Ben and Johnny might have trouble sitting through the whole play."

"It's lovely, though—and if they perform it as they did onstage, there is a wet T-shirt and dress scene."

"That might not be enough. I'll get the DVD of the movie they did with Michelle Pfeiffer as the Fairy Queen and make them watch it—they'll get more out of it if they're briefed ahead of time." she decided. "Before I hang up, Reed has something he wants to say to you…"

That was the real reason she was calling! I waited while she put down the phone and went to get her husband. I could hear them quite clearly as she said, with meaning, "Reed." Only it came out more like 'Reeeeeed'. She went up and down an octave in there.

"Why do I have to do this now? Can't it wait three days when we're at the wedding?" he asked, testily.

"No, it can't. Reed, you promised."

"All, right, all right." I heard him pick up the phone, and guessed that he had simply stretched out his arm for it, all the way across the room. "Ms. Florescu?" he said, sounding harassed.

"Yes. Good morning, Doctor Richards."

"Good morning, I would like to add my best wishes for your happiness and Victor's. I hope you will forget I ever offered any objections, because I have no reason to suppose that Victor will be anything but a good husband to you, other than my own suppositions which are based on memories that are nearly twenty years old. I hope that you will be very happy together." It sounded rehearsed.

"Thank you, Doctor Richards."

"You're welcome, Ms. Florescu."

"Are you going to tell me what those memories are, Doctor Richards?"

"No, Ms. Florescu, I am not." That was the end of the conversation.

"You are rather late, my dear—not that we are on any agenda. Did something happen that delayed you?" asked Victor, when I finally made my way down to meet him at the aircraft.

"Only the entire world calling to talk to me." I replied. "Let's go home."


	38. Chapter 38

"How much of Robert Angevin's history do you know?" I asked as I strapped myself in. "And did you choose him not only knowing that he would bring along his son so I could get some exposure to a baby and realize I wasn't going to kill him, but also that his father could share his risky but successful reproductive story?"

"My dear, you wound me to the quick." said Victor, with mock offense. "How could you suggest that I would be capable of such a thing? I know Angevin's life story. He comes from a family almost as tortured as yours." He flipped several switches and prepared the craft for take-off. Ulrike was going to be flying back the way she had come, by commercial airliner, with my clothing. Victor and I were going back via his private craft, which could only accommodate two. "His mother, while not schizophrenic, bordered on schizoid, his oldest brother was a compulsive sexual addict and his second brother is serving fifteen to twenty years for perjury and embezzlement."

"Not to mention that he married his niece. Despite the circumstances, I still think there's something interesting there, psychologically speaking." I observed, as the ground fell away below us, and we headed for the clouds.

"Indeed. She has a certain resemblance to his mother—her grandmother. He was bound to sympathize with you. To return to the question of his child, I also knew that, as the proud father of a healthy baby boy whose wife is out of town, he could not resist the opportunity of showing him off. I have frequently observed that new parents regard holding their baby to be a great privilege which is in their power to bestow on the worthy." Victor adjusted the craft's settings and continued.

"None of this would have proven enough to recommend him as your attorney were Robert Angevin not also one of the finest legal minds of our era and an exceptional lawyer both in the courtroom and in the conference room. As a trial lawyer, he is without peer."

"The Prince of Sharkness," I said, recalling what Jen had said of him.

"He is called that, yes. He has confided in me that he has never yet left the courtroom without the verdict he wanted—which is not to say that he has won every case. Where did you hear that?" Victor asked.

I explained that Jen, Janet, and Sue had each called in turn, and that Reed Richards withdrew his objections and now wished us well.

"Bah! He might have saved his breath." Victor spit out. "The presumption of the man!"

"I don't think it was presumption so much as it was someone twisting his arm—and given his powers, his arm must take a lot of twisting. I rather visualize Ben doing it. Do you mind if I borrow your computer, since you're flying this craft? I have just thought of something that might be your wedding gift, if I can get it. I'm afraid my attention will be taken up for a while—and if you want it to be a surprise, you shouldn't track back through your browser history."

"I do wonder what you might come up with." he admitted. "Yet the pleasure of being surprised upon receiving it will be all the greater for not assuaging my curiosity beforehand. By all means, go ahead."

I opened the internet browser, my mind awhirl. While I had indeed thought of a wedding gift for him, and one which would take some research, I had just had a possibility so startling cross my mind that I doubted I could hold up my end of our conversation with him while I thought it through.

I entered 'Malleus Maleficarium' into the search engine—the infamous, deplorable Hammer of Witches—the papal edict which was responsible for the deaths of who knew how many innocent people. It was difficult to know just what to get Victor, since anything simply expensive he could buy for himself. One of the original copies of that particular document, however, would be a good choice for its historical significance. He could keep it—or destroy it, which would give him a great deal of satisfaction.

My mind was on other things, however. Reed Richards, and whatever it was that he remembered. I had already noticed that he was acting as if he were implicated—as if telling what he knew would expose himself as well. As if the secret were something shameful—and personal.

Might something have happened between Reed and Victor when they were back in college? Something which he could not, would not admit to his wife and his best friend? Something, to put it quite frankly, sexual?

Victor had been very young when he was offered the chance to study in America—so young that he had lied about his age. It was his first time away from his tribe, his first time on his own—If there was anything I knew about Victor, it was that he was very lonely, but he must hardly have ever been more so when he first set foot on American soil.

He was a foreigner, from a country that was full of Communists. He was a Rom in America, a country which even today still has laws in certain states which discriminate against Gypsies—laws which are unconstitutional, and which, if it were any other ethnic group would have been struck down and overturned long ago. There were so many ways in which he just would not have fit in…but the intellectual was not one of them. There he would have been an alpha male.

Reed Richards was almost certainly the first person to whom he could relate on that level—just as Victor was the first person I had ever come across to whom I could relate intellectually. It was one of the strongest attractions which he had for me—that I could talk to him and know he would understand what I was talking about—that I would not break down my concepts into terms which he would be able to comprehend.

That alone might have been enough to make me love him.

So: there Victor was, in America, in a college that concentrated on pre-med, pre-law and the sciences—a preserve with a population that was predominantly male—not quite as much as a prison or a monastery, but close to it. I knew from personal experience that even girls with I.Q.s in the genius range were not actively encouraged to go into the sciences-we were pointed in the direction of the arts and humanities.

Add to the atmosphere the fact that most of the students were in their sexual primes and horny all the time, add beer to the equation…

I had been an innocent until quite recently, but that didn't mean I was ignorant. I was sophisticated enough to know that sexuality isn't divided strictly into gay, straight, and bi. Victor certainly found me sexually attractive, but it wasn't just because I was a woman whose face and body appealed to him. He might have been attracted to Reed Richards.

Some night, after a long conversation, lubricated by alcohol, flushed with the excitement that only comes from the knowledge that there was someone else in the world with a mind that was as keen, Victor might have said—or done—something, something unequivocal, made an advance that Reed rebuffed, either then, or, more hurtful yet, the morning after.

It was possible. That didn't mean it was likely. But it fit how Richards was acting.

This wasn't an insight on my part—it was imagination. I knew the difference.

It certainly gave me something to chew over on the trip home.

* * *

A/N: Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into a slash story. The question is, could Joviana be right? Or, rather, where am I, the writer, going to go with it? Heheeheh!


	39. Chapter 39

Of course I wouldn't have blurted out a question like "Were you in love with Reed Richards all those years ago?", because whether the answer was yes or no, Victor might very well have lost control of the aircraft and sent us plunging into the Atlantic. I thought about it while I hunted through the internet for a original copy of the Malleus—it was so very improbable, yet difficult to dismiss entirely—but then I got distracted from that train of thought once I found a library in Antwerp which had both a copy and a cash flow problem. I had begun to think I would do better to buy some calfskin parchment and copy it out myself. (Calligraphy is my one area of artistic talent.)

The distraction came when I checked my bank balance to see how much I had left after the lingerie spree of the day before, and discovered that not only did I have more than I would have thought, I had a lot more than I had saved out of my salary. I knew who was behind that…

Apparently many arguments in new marriages stem from just three sources: sex (no problem there!) division of chores (Castle Doom had a household staff of 350) and finances. Surely, given who we were and the possibilities open to us, Victor and I could find more original and interesting things to fight about besides money. It was probably best that we came to an understanding about this as early as we could.

"Victor," I said, "Thank you for anticipating that my expenses were going to go up. I appreciate how thoughtfully and tactfully you dealt with it, too. A lot. I am a little lost, though, because I don't really know what these funds are intended to cover. I assume I'll be paying my lawyer out of this, but what about Ulrike, my wardrobe assistant? Do I pay her directly, or is she still on the staff payroll? And what sort of budget do you foresee for the next year? Before you make any sweeping statements like 'unlimited', let me say two words that should strike ice into your heart: 'Imelda Marcos.'"

He laughed. "Never tell me you have an unguessed passion for shoes?"

"I like nice shoes as much as the next woman, provided the next woman isn't Imelda Marcos, but I was thinking of other things. Of course you know I went to all the museums and theaters in Washington DC when we were there earlier this year."

"Yes. That is why we will be enjoying 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' on our wedding day."

"Exactly. I also went to the libraries, and after I visited the main branch of the DC public library, I thought that if I ever had enough money to donate, enough to make a significant difference, I would give it to them."

"Why?" Victor asked.

"Because, frankly, the condition of that building is disgraceful. It was designed by Mies van der Rohe, an important architect, named in memory of Martin Luther King Jr. a great man, and even if neither of those was reason enough to see to it that it was kept in good repair and well funded, it's the main branch of the public library of the capitol of the United States. Symbolically, it stands for all the public libraries of America—yet whenever I visited, half the elevators were out of order, the bookcases had things like banana peels, empty soda cans, and crumpled up potato chip bags shelved alongside of the books, the stairwells had sheets of plastic hanging from the ceiling to funnel leaking water into enormous plastic garbage cans, and the ladies' room was scary for a number of reasons which I will not go into. The remains of the old pneumatic tube system for delivering messages was still in place."

"How much would you like to give them? They could hardly refuse a donation, even though it comes from Doom, and calling attention to the deplorable state of the library would deliver a subtle comment upon the American sense of priority—as subtle as if it were delivered with a stiletto. I approve of it."

Victor would naturally think that way. Well, whatever his reasons for donating the funds, they were sorely needed.

"One billion dollars would be good; two would be better. Someone would also be needed to oversee how it was spent, or else the greater part of it will be diverted to the new baseball stadium, and the children of DC will continue to think that empty sports drink bottles are shelved under 'B'." I quipped.

"Then five billion would be better still. I shall appoint Albert to select an overseer—he graduated from Howard University and therefore ought to have some sense of the political realities of Washington…"

Our finance discussion lasted the rest of the trip home, and it wasn't exactly all settled. We finally hammered out an agreement that purchases of a million Euros or more would call for a discussion first, but that left a lot of grey area. It was an amiable talk (I quietly arranged for the purchase and delivery of the Malleus while we talked.)

Then we were in Latverian airspace, and descending through the clouds to the main square of Doomstadt, where the citizens were waiting to welcome us home. Victor likes to be greeted with a great deal of fanfare when he comes back to his people, even after a short absence. He doesn't actually require a brass band, but there usually is one.

Anyone who wonders why Victor should be so loved by his subjects, and command such loyalty as he does should study more history. The Haasens were a joke, the Soviets were worse, but the Ceausescus were monsters. Under their regime, birth control was banned completely, and couples were paid a bounty for every baby they produced, so the population swelled prodigiously—but then the parents weren't able to house, feed and clothe all their many children. Ceausescu then kindly provided orphanages in which to stockpile the excess—in conditions which made my life with my mother seem paradisiacal, and my mother herself a stable and steady person.

Thanks to Victor's efforts, Latveria is now one of the three best places for mothers and children to live in the entire world—and he's seriously annoyed that we aren't first. That is only part of why he is greeted with such enthusiasm…

I had never before attended of his triumphal re-entries before, from either side—I had always returned via a commercial airline, or been somewhere else, but I had seen them from a distance. There seemed to be a lot of people down there—more than was usual. I said as much to Victor.

"That will be on your account, my dear. This is a joyous occasion for them—their first opportunity to greet you as my bride."

Indeed, as Victor landed our craft as delicately as a snowflake alighting on the ground, and I beheld the crowd at street level, there was a certain flowery, bridal component to this greeting—garlands of blossoms, streamers, and a whole flock of little girls in their Sunday best white frocks, with little bouquets of flowers in their hands.

As Victor stood up and handed me out of the aircraft, the people sent up a cheer, and the little girls rushed me, holding up the flowers as high as they could, and waving them. It made me laugh just out of happiness, and I took them, giving each a hug and kiss in return for her flowers.

It felt natural, like holding little Hugo Angevin had, while he looked up at me with his root-beer candy eyes and gurgled. It felt like kissing a child repeatedly and frequently would be something I could not only handle, but enjoy—even though one had got hold of some candy and was sticky.

I knew why the people were giving me all this attention—I represented a lot of things to them as Victor's bride, his wife, the potential mother of his children. I meant stability and change both—I represented the future, the possibility of an heir. I was a lot more hopeful now than I could have been only a short day before, and so I smiled and waved and thanked them like anything. Victor thanked them, too, and we went up the hill to the castle together.

There was indeed a lot to be done for the wedding, but before I got into it all, I went up to my suite to change my blouse—between the lily pollen from the flowers and the little girl with the candy, it was a mess.

I paused and looked around. My bedroom was just as it was before, except that the horticulture department had put vases of tall vanilla-ice-cream colored roses around. Yet something was different. It somehow no longer seemed like a place I could never live in. It seemed a lot more like home. If nothing about the room had changed—then I must have done the changing.

It was still a bit impersonal, though. There were only a few things around that I had chosen, things that had a private significance for me—the millifiore paperweight I bought in Venice when I was eleven, when my birth mother had taken my stepsister and I on a vacation to Italy—the photograph of Galina Florescu, who was also my mother, through being the first Joviana Florescu's mother. I would have to find more ways to make this room mine.

I found a fresh blouse. In the moment between removing the soiled blouse and putting on the new, I paused again, and looked at myself in the mirror. Why was I so concerned about my breasts being too small? I mean, I was a woman, not a cow. I wasn't flat chested. I was…proportionate for my height and build.

Maybe it was about what breasts were for. Not just sex, but babies. Maybe the real reason I thought my breasts were inadequate was because I had been afraid I didn't have what it took to be a good mother—that I wouldn't be able to nurture.

It could be that I was reading too much into it. In a world with Pamela Anderson and the Wonderbra, there was plenty to make a more modestly built girl insecure. I put on my blouse.

What had I said to Victor the night before? "I wonder how much else of what I thought I knew about myself is false."—or something to that effect. Now I wondered what the truths were that had to be there instead. I was looking forward to finding out…

This level of the tower was divided—there was Victor's suite—which he had yet to show to me, there was mine—but the tower was larger than that. There was an area that had to be at least the same size as mine. I left my rooms and stepped into the little circular hall.

There was a door, and it was not locked. I opened it, and entered—an empty space. An area that was all bare walls and floor, no furniture, nothing that divided it into rooms, no fixtures, just walls and windows, ceiling and floor.

I knew what it was meant for, of course. It was the nursery suite. I crossed the space to look out the windows. My suite faced the mountains—Victor's, from the orientation of it, must look out over Doomstadt, which meant that this window showed the interior courtyard of the castle itself. The well which had been my doorway to Hades was there, far below, as well as the medieval garden, now replanted and restored to the way it had been when it was first planted, where I had been standing when Johnny Storm made the comment that first made me aware that I could be attractive—and which had prompted Victor to remark that he had noticed, too.

It was also the best-guarded direction, the one which would be hardest to attack. The safest, in other words. Victor was thinking of the future. There were a lot of possibilities in that room…

Then I realized something which I had not taken into account before, something which made me break into one of the biggest smiles of my life.

Mephisto had tempted me with many things, but the only one which had truly tried my resolve was the promise that I would not have to fear motherhood. He had said there was no trick, that I would be able to have children, and be a good mother, that I wouldn't die until I was very old, in my own bed, with my family around me, after a long and happy life.

But what was the first and immutable law about dealing with demons? "Demons always cheat." Always. Whatever they actually promise you, you will get, but there is going to be a catch.

Where would the catch be in that circumstance, if I got what he promised?

Only if what he promised me was something I already possessed…

-----------  
A/N: The description of the MLK jr Library in DC is unhappily accurate. I live in the DC area. So too is the detail about the Ceaucescu regime.


	40. The House of M is a House of Cards

Part 3: Dance Me to the Wedding Now

As I looked out over the castle courtyard from the future nursery, I was looking forward to a few quiet days, at least. I didn't get them. Instead…

The Great Hall of Castle Doom erupted into violence as Magneto and his Enforcers retaliated against Doom's failed attempt to lure them into another dimension and slaughter them there, where the laws of physics were different and Magneto's powers would not work. The castle's security forces streamed in from all directions to join the affray, but they were ineffectual against the powers of the mutants, being all too human.

The only forces on Doom's side who were at all effective were the Invincible Woman and the Inhuman Torch, and they were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Magneto and Doom were locked in combat in the middle of the battle, and it was not going well for the ruler of Latveria—not well at all.

I had to do something. I seized an inkwell off my desk, and visually tracked the blur and the falling bodies that showed where Quicksilver, Magneto's super-fast son, had just been. If I aimed for him and let fly a hundred thousand times, I could never hope to hit him, not at the speeds of which he was capable.

So instead I deliberately threw the inkwell in a direction where he wasn't. I hit him square on the chin—or rather, he ran right into my missile.

The Heroic Law of Odds: Million to one chances always succeed.

I admit I first encountered that law in the works of Terry Pratchett, but careful observation had proved it to be true.

The 'thwack' that was barely audible above the din when the inkpot hit was as nothing to the sound of Quicksilver's skull hitting the stone floor with a dull 'thunk'. At the speed he was going before I intervened, his head shattered like a watermelon falling off a speeding truck.

"Pietro!" howled Magneto, breaking off his fight with Doom to rush to his son's side. He was not the mutant leader now; he was a father. I didn't waste a moment. I took up my pen, stopped him by the ludicrously easy tactic of stepping on his cape.

As he turned toward me to remonstrate, I grabbed a handful of his silver hair in one hand, and brought my other hand around in an arc that ended when my pen pierced his eye. His electromagnetic powers washed over me, to no avail. I wore nothing metal, and my pen was made in Venice. It was completely impervious to his powers. It was a slender shaft of tinted and shaped glass—that came to a wicked point.

He shrieked in pain, and vitreous humor spurted out over my hand, but I drove the pen in deeper still, until it dug into the brain, and then I dragged it from one end of the eye socket to the other, until I felt the fragile glass snap and splinter.

Magneto gurgled, twitched, and died, sagging suddenly to the flagstones.

All around me, the battle had ground to a sudden, shocked halt. "You—you killed him," someone said, in disbelief.

"I killed them both." I said, wearily. The blue-black ink stains on my hand and on Pietro's face bore witness to my other deed.

Doom pushed his way through the crowd, looked at the corpses, at the stump of pen which I still held in my hand, fragments of brain tissue adhering to it. "You," he breathed, in awe and triumph. The breathtakingly handsome face, the perfect, unscarred face of Victor Von Doom turned toward me. "This is your doing. For your services and loyalty, I here create you the Duchess of Brantzia and Keeper of the Citadel."

"Brantzia is mine!" protested his wife, Valeria, the Invincible Woman, who had fought her way through the press to his side. "And the Citadel is mine!" insisted their adopted son, Kristoff, the Inhuman Torch.

"Bah! They were yours." growled their leader. "I bestowed them and can reclaim them as I choose. Take care that is not all that you lose." he said, glaring at them. "And as for that traitor!" he spat, looking at the rock-like, orange skinned It that crouched in the corner, "I shall have it crushed into a million fragments and used to make ornamental garden paths."

"Now!" he raised his voice, speaking to everyone, Latverians and mutants both. "The House of Magneto is overthrown. Your leader and his heir lie broken and bleeding on my floor. The House of Doom rules over all!"

He turned back to me. "Whatever it is you want, you have but to name it, and it is yours." He took my hand, and looked searchingly into my eyes.

"I thank you for the offer, but there is nothing you can grant or give me that I want." I said, fighting the impulse to free my hand.

"Are you so sure?" he asked, in a velvety undertone.

"There is something that I want," came another voice, from the head of the stairs. "And that is that you should let go of my wife's hand." All heads turned to look at the imposing masked figure that stood there, his cloak falling about him like two great wings.

Victor came down the Great Stair, as only he could. "You!" fulminated the Doom who stood before me. "Who are you to appear in my armor, in my castle? Why do you not show your face, you craven?"

"Who are you, who calls himself Victor Von Doom?" retorted my Victor. He had the air of authority that the other Doom lacked, the aura of command. He swept across the room toward us. "For I tell you now that I and I alone am Doom, and you, who bowed your neck under the yoke of this offal," the toe of his boot prodded Magneto, "are nothing but the palest shade of what I am. How many years did you seek to free yourself, you and yours? And in the little time which my wife has spent here among you she vanquished them with less effort than it would take her to swat a fly."

My Victor turned to me. "Come. Swiftly. Put your arms around my neck." I did so. He slid an arm around me, boosted me up so I was half sitting on it, then raised his other hand and vaporized a large hole in the roof. The suit's propulsion field engaged, and we shot up into the sky, leaving a very startled Great Hall full of people below us.

"My dear, I have the answer." Victor said, shielding me from the wind with his cloak. "The one behind this is Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch."

"Magneto's daughter and Quicksilver's twin," I said, identifying her immediately. "She made her father the ruler of the world, using her powers."

"Yes." He confirmed it, nodding. "She may again. It is not beyond her powers to resurrect them even now. She is attempting to create her own private world where she and everyone she loves have what they always wanted. Unfortunately, she has imposed it upon our own."

"There is a problem with that." I said, as I carefully wiped my hands on my smock. "A lot of the people she didn't love are dead. Given that she was for many years an Avenger and Janet's friend, she must be—quite literally—insane."

"She is." was his reply. "Nor does she want to be helped, because if she returns to sanity, her two sons will cease to exist."

We were on a really tough deadline to get things back to normal, too. Our wedding was supposed to be tomorrow.  
-----------------

A/N: Confused? Don't worry. All will be explained...eventually. If you are a reader of the comic books, this is loosely based around the recent big crossover, 'House of M', which has a Victor Von Doom so out of character that I just had to do something.


	41. Chapter 41

A/N: Having begun in the middle of all the excitement, this story will now go back to the beginning. As I said, all will EVENTUALLY be explained. But first…

----------------------------

The afternoon after our return unfolded in a fairly ordinary way.

I took one last look around the space that might in the future (exactly when had not yet been discussed) be the nursery suite, and then went back down to see exactly what wedding preparations needed my assistance if they were to keep moving. I finalized the order for flowers with the horticulture department, approved the wording, paper and format for the thank-you notes, and went to have a look at the presents that were arriving almost hourly. Castle security had cleared them as safe, which meant they were already unwrapped.

That was another thing I had not thought about: wedding presents. Of course I knew people usually did give gifts to the bride and groom, but I hadn't connected the fact that meant people were going to be giving gifts to Victor and me. It was clear that there were going to be a lot of them, and given that Victor was a head of state, and many of the guests were representatives of other heads of state, some of the gifts were lavish.

To wit: a full dinnerware set of Sevres porcelain, an antique silver—not silver plated, solid silver—hostess service, complete with coffee pot, tea pot, chocolate pot, and about a dozen accessories like sugar bowls, creamers, milk pitchers, lemon slice dishes, bowls to put the used tea leaves in, dishes for bonbons, plus various spoons, tongs, and unidentifiable silver doodads. There were punch bowls, tapestries, rugs, and a matched pair of epergnes, elaborate serving stands which were meant to sit decoratively on a table and hold small pieces of fruit and candy for later consumption. These two were Murano glass, and looked like trees with little baskets among the branches.

Conspicuous consumption didn't cover it. This was ridiculous. Then I remembered Mary, Queen of Scots, and what she did with the solid silver christening font that Elizabeth the First sent her: melted it down and turned it into coinage. These were not so much personal gifts as they were assets, and if need be, they could be turned into money—a quiet little auction at Sotheby's would do it.

The personal gifts were humbler, and heartfelt. Gifts from the people of Latveria—the Werner Academy's third form class had banded together to buy a vase from the cameo glass factory. The inn's brewmaster had made and sent an extra-large keg of spiced wedding ale. Those meant a lot more to me than the set of flatware that came on behalf of the Queen of England. After all, I didn't live in England.

However, the castle's major-domo had all the gifts displayed on tables in the white-and-gold morning room, according to who had sent them, and the relative monetary value of the gifts was a little too apparent. Since the Latverian people were going to be allowed in to see them, I told the major-domo to rearrange the gifts according to their use, so every gift had a place of equal honor.

He asked why. I drew a deep breath, and was about to tell him, when a voice behind me said, "What can that matter to you? Whose is the authority here, hers or yours? She's the Master's wife, and can send you packing if she pleases!" It was Boris, Victor's foster father. It must not have been one of his good days, because he was relying on his cane. He thumped it on the carpet for emphasis.

The major-domo blanched. "As you wish, my lady." He hurried off.

"I'm glad you're back safe." Boris told me. "Can you spare a couple of hours or so to talk with an old man?"

"Of course." I replied. Whatever Boris had to say, it was more important than whether the wedding favors should be handed out as guests took their places for the ceremony or put on the charger plates so they got them when they sat down to eat. "Where should we go so we can be comfortable?"

"I have a fancy to show you something that's a ways off." he said. "Up the river. There's a lad from the garage who drives me when I want to go there, he'll take us both and wait."

"Let me get—let me send for a hat." I corrected myself.

Boris was quiet during our ride—evidently whatever he had to say was not for other ears. I just sat back and enjoyed the scenery. The lilacs were blooming, in melting shades of white, lavender, and pink. Here and there people were cutting branches to use as wedding decorations around the castle. Our native Latverian lilacs were tough, robust, and disease-free, but you could never use them on a dinner table. Nobody would be able to taste the food; their fragrance so strong it was almost visible in the air. So the flowers for the tables would be flown in from Holland, as would the blossoms for my bouquet.

Which reminded me: 'The Master has given instructions that your bouquet should be entirely jasmine.' The chief horticulturist had looked apologetic. Why should Victor have done that? I wondered idly. I liked jasmine, but no more than I liked roses, lavender or any other flower. I loved jasmine tea, that was true, but I loved most teas Nor could I ever recall mentioning that flower to him. Maybe it had a significance for him…

Boris coughed. I looked at him; an old Rom in his every day clothes.

Before I lived in Latveria, I hadthe usualvague misconceptions about the Gypsies, or the Roma, as they preferred to be called: Esmerelda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, dancing with her goat and her tambourine—Maria Ouspenskaya and Bela Lugosi as mother and son gypsies in The Wolfman—a lot of fashion magazine layouts showing sulky models in haute couture that was some designer's idea of what a gypsy wore.

There were plenty of negative connotations attached to gypsies, too. All gypsies were thieves, liars, beggars and con artists. They kidnapped children. The men were layabouts, the young women were sluts and the old ones fortune tellers. They were filthy and lazy. The very word 'gypped' was a racial slur.

The reality was quite different. I learned that an 'Orthodox' Rom—one who lived strictly according to the old ways—lived according to laws as strict and complex as that of an Orthodox Jew. They were suspicious of outsiders, but I met them as one who Victor had sent, and that was different. Everywhere else in Eastern Europe—and indeed in much of the rest of the world—the Roma were discriminated against, persecuted, reviled. Not in Latveria. Victor's outreach program, which provided food, medical care, education, various other assistance to his mother's people, which I had worked on, had been an education for me.

"Here we are." said the driver. He stopped at the beginning of a driveway; a road led away over a slight hill. "Shall I wait here, as usual?" he asked Boris.

"Yes, that's fine." Boris nodded. The driver helped him out of the car. "This way." Boris pointed at the drive, and he and I walked over the grassy swelling of earth.

"I went and sat with him," he said suddenly, as crickets jumped about in the tall grass. There was no need for Boris to say who 'he' was. He meant Victor, and we both knew it. Boris went on.

"After we got you out of the well, once when they'd done all they could and then put you to bed to get better. He went and stood by your bed for the longest time, you lying there so silent and still…Like he was trying to will you back among the living.

"He said 'If she lives, she is my wife.' I knew it would be all right then. I knew he would be all right—that is, if you lived. He wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it, and never since he understood what giving his word meant have I known him to break it.

"I'd seen you around the castle, of course, and I noticed something about you. When he started getting too full of himself, you could tell him so, without his getting mad. That's more than I ever learned."

We were picking our way down the far slope of the hill. "Um," I temporized. "I just try to, uh, to…I didn't think anyone was noticing." I confessed.

"I've known him since before he had ever had a stitch of clothing on. I was there when they placed him, new-born, all red and squashed and yelling, at Werner's feet."

A Rom custom; a fiercely patriarchal society, the father has the power of life and death over his child. If he picks the child up, it is accepted, and can live. If not…It was an old custom, outdated.

"This is what I wanted to show you." Boris said, with pride, and gestured around. It was a horse farm; there were stables, pastures, a riding ring. Several dozen horses were in view; in the nearest enclosure, a mare with a delicate little foal beside her pranced over to the fence, attracted by Boris' voice. "This is mine.

"It was over twenty years ago—getting on toward thirty, now—that I must have said I wanted to have some blood-stock of my own, some day, to breed, to train, to buy and sell as I pleased. He heard me say that, and he remembered. As soon as he could afford it, he bought this place, told me to look about for the breeding stock I wanted. He even brought in some mares he thought would be good. I swear, if I'd looked up at the sky and said I wanted to own the moon one day, he wouldn't have rested until he came up with some way of getting it for me…Of course, when the Fantastic Four came in a few years back and set that Rudolph Haasen up as ruler of Latveria, Haasen took it all away. He shot three of my horses, one right after another, to get me to betray my—my old friend's son, to make me say Haasen was king. When I wouldn't yield, he sent me to the dungeon. They were too valuable to go killing all of them. The dungeons didn't break me, either."

I was too rapt to make a sound. "Haasen sold them all. When he came back," Again, 'he' was Victor. "the first thing he did, when his was the power again, was go down to the dungeon and carry me out of there, and tend to me. Later, he bought back the horses that he could, and replaced the ones he couldn't. There's some of the finest blood in the world, right here…"

Boris dug a bag out of his pocket, and shook some pieces of dried fruit into his hand. The mare whickered, and he fed her a bit. "Do you want to give her some?" he offered.

Horses make me a little nervous. There's no major trauma behind that; I'm wary of animals that not only weigh a ton, but have steel nailed to their feet. My step-sister was the horse-crazy one, not me. Boris was looking at me expectantly, though, so I took some of the apple bits and held them out to her. Her muzzle was velvety and bristly both.

"What with the new ways of doing things, my stallion has sons and daughters all over the world. They freeze his seed and send it to all the corners of the earth." Boris said. "Never did I dream such a thing could be. I didn't know it, but the whole world changed the day Werner Von Doom first came among us."

TBC….soon.


	42. Chapter 42

"He wasn't born a Rom?" I asked.

"Werner Von Doom? With that Von in his name? No, he was the last of the Von Dooms, the old aristocracy. The Soviets went around every so often, getting rid of them. That was how he joined us. He was at University, studying medicine, when a friend of his sent him the word that the Black Squad was coming for him. He needed to get away, fast and quiet as he could. So he came to us, and asked if we would get him out of the city.

"Our headman asked him 'And why should we do that?' He could tell Werner hadn't any money.

"Werner gave him a look up and down, and replied, 'Because I can help your gout.'

"He did, too. Once we were out in the country, he made a medicine out of autumn crocus bulbs for our chief to take, and told him to stay away from red wine and organ meats. That put out chief a little out of temper. He was fond of grilled kidneys, when he could get them. Anyhow, six months later, he was still among us. Werner liked the life, the traveling. He just slipped into the role of our healer, and he was a good one. He made most of his own medicines from what he could gather or buy along the way.

"Then there was Cynthia. She was—fifteen, sixteen then. About the age of my daughter, Mayra. Cynthia took a good look at Werner, and that was it. She started hanging around him, going to him with any little cut or bruise she could find for him to treat it. It got so bad her father went to Werner and had a word with him. It turned out she was hurting herself on purpose, to have an excuse to go to him.

"Werner asked her why she was doing that, and Cynthia spoke right up. She told him she loved him and wanted to marry him. Oh, she was a willful one! That's where her son gets it from. Young girls among us aren't often that bold.

"Werner said he didn't know if he wanted to get married or not, but she had to stop hunting for reasons to see him, and hurting herself. He said that he'd think about marrying her, but he wasn't going to marry a girl who couldn't read and write and do her numbers. I think it was his way of trying to put her off, because of course she couldn't—not then.

"But she learned. Some said, afterward, that it was learning to read that was the problem, she never would have started trafficking with demons if she hadn't, but I don't agree. It was all there in her from the start—you don't need to know how to read to do that, you just need to find someone to teach you. The power was in her from the day she was born.

"So two years later, Werner married Cynthia, and my girl Mayra married too. It wasn't long before both of the brides were going to have babies. They were brought to bed within a month of each other. Cynthia gave birth to Victor, and Mayra had Valeria. Only Mayra died in childbirth…

"My wife and I took Valeria. If she'd been a boy, her father and his people would have wanted to keep her, but being a girl, they were glad enough that we took her. Mayra was our only child, you see."

"Then you're much older than Werner and Cynthia would be, if they'd lived." I remarked, keeping track of all the relative ages.

"Yes. We got to be close, though, what with having two babes the same age. Werner was a good friend, and the gentlest man that ever lived. Cynthia—if ever there was a mother who loved her child more than Cynthia loved him, I never heard of her…You know what happened to Cynthia." He looked at me.

"Yes." I replied.

"Werner…He was never the same, afterwards. She was the fire in his life, in his heart…But he had the boy, and he looked after him as tender as any woman ever could. We helped him out, here and there—he was terrible at mending clothes, so my wife did that for them. She died not long after that, though. A cancer in her breast."

"I'm sorry." I said.

"It was so long ago…That was an ailment Werner could do little about. So much the worse, when the 'baron'—more of a 'robber baron'—had heard of the miraculous gypsy healer—" I had never heard Boris speak with sarcasm before—"and sent armed men to get him, to tend to his ailing wife—who was dying already, of cancer. All the medicines and doctors and hospitals could do nothing for her, but Werner was supposed to cure her.

"The baron said if his wife died, so would Werner—and Victor. Four days later, Werner returned—escaped, in truth! All that he could do was give her something to ease her passing. He had come back only to get Victor and get away, as far away as they could. He bundled up just what he could carry, and told Victor to do the same. They fled into the mountains. The problem was, it was late October. I don't have to tell you what that means around here."

"A lightning blizzard." Latverian winters were long, fierce, and capricious, especially in the higher elevations. When a lightning blizzard was about to hit, the temperature would drop by twenty degrees Celsius in a few hours, and then came snow so thick and heavy it was blinding. Up in the mountains, it was doubly dangerous, because someone caught in one had to choose between staying still and freezing to death—or keep moving and fall down a precipice. Even people who were used to such weather patterns could make a mistake.

"When we found them, Victor was wrapped up, as warm as toast, fast asleep. Werner had put every spare garment on Victor, even his own hat and gloves, and then buttoned the boy inside his coat with him, wrapping himself around the boy.

But Werner… His head was bare, and so were his hands. Had he lived, he would have lost both feet, I'm sure of that, and most of the one hand—the other was tucked up inside his coat, holding his son close. I don't know what the frostbite would have left of his face—not much of it, I don't think.

"He died of exposure. We did what we could, but without a hospital, without even a bathtub of warm water, there wasn't much. I poured plum brandy down his throat, and we made a fire.

"Through all of this, Victor hardly made a sound. He watched us with big dark eyes. He didn't scream, or cry. He kept out of the way. I looked at him once, and I knew his heart was breaking…

"Werner came round for a while, before the end. It was with his dying breath that he asked me, as his friend, to look after his son.

"What could I do but swear I would, and having sworn, be true to it?"

The land around us, the gentle pastures, the trees, the vaulted sky above, took Boris' words in, in understanding silence.

Finally I asked, "How old was Victor then?"

"Eight. It was almost thirty years ago. Mind you, it wasn't easy. I had Valeria to bring up as well, and in some ways, she was harder to raise, there being things I couldn't tell her or teach her. I thought he would be the son I never had, and so he was, up to a point. That boy…It was like his head was on fire, like that Human Torch's, only on the inside, where it didn't show as much. I'd show him or tell him something once, and he'd remember it forever.

"That didn't mean he always obeyed me—he was the one for coming up with all kinds of things! He'd put these chemicals in a baked clay pot, and throw it at a truck, like a grenade, and it would freeze up like it was in an ice storm. Or he'd get hold of a busted up old violin, and fix it up so anyone could play it like they'd been practicing for years. Then he'd sell it to someone, and it would work—until we left town. To this day, I don't know how he managed that. And books. He always spent the money on books."

"That's what I would have done." I commented.

"You too, eh? I'm not surprised. For all of that, though—for all the years, and me doing what I could to keep him fed—which, when he started growing like a weed, wasn't easy—and then him coming back and looking after me, buying me this place and the horses…I know that what ever I wanted or needed, he'd get it for me. I'd only have to say the word—but he's never once called me father. Thirty years. I know he wouldn't want to say it out in public, that would never do, but now and then, if he'd…He doesn't want to forget Werner, I know that. He always speaks of me as his father's friend. Sometimes it's on my lips to call him my son, but, then, how can you call a wildfire or a mountain son? That's what he's like."

"I know what you mean." I said. "But, Boris, when he speaks of the importance of a father in a child's life, he speaks of you and Werner in the same breath. You said he gets his willfulness from Cynthia—I can see that he gets his sense of honor from you. Werner was the father of the boy, but you—you're the father of the man."

He looked at me, and blinked, several times. "Thank you," he said, hoarsely. He tucked away the empty bag that had the dried fruit in it—we had fed it to several horses as he talked—and took out his handkerchief. He wiped his eyes, and sagged against the nearest fence.

"Thank you. You don't know what it's been like for me—Werner didn't say, 'look after my boy', he said, 'look after my son'. Just because he was grown to be a man didn't mean I could leave off looking after him, so I've kept on—wondering what was going to happen when I would die, because in all the world, for years—I was all that he'd got, who he could trust in. Once I was gone, who would he have?

"Because I know him. After he got back in power, the next morning, they found Rudolph Haasen, and there was hardly a bone in his body that wasn't broken. I know he did that. For me, though, around me—he'll hold that part of himself in check. But now there's you, and I can see that he's going to be all right. You bring out the better side of him. You make him laugh. You can stop him when he's going off into one of his rages. When it's my time, I can die knowing he's got someone in this world that truly loves him."

"Oh—please—" I wasn't sure what to say. "Yes. I know. I know him. I do love him." I put my hand on Boris' shoulder, trying to comfort him. Our moment of tearful communion was broken by the mare, who nudged her nose rudely in between us to see if we had any more fruit. I had to laugh, and Boris joined me.

He put his handkerchief away. "I've got to tell you this part, too. My granddaughter, Valeria. I brought them up together, and it was never as brother and sister. When they were five years old they were saying they were going to marry each other, as innocent as two buds on a twig. If he'd been anyone else, like as not they would have, too, when they got to an age for it, but I knew. I knew he was going to have to go away, among the gadjin,"—Gadjin was the Rom word for anyone who wasn't Rom— "to learn what he had to, to become what he was going to become. Only Valeria didn't see that. She didn't want to see it.

"One day she came crying to me, saying, 'Victor says he doesn't need love, or a wife and children. He says such things are for lesser men, and not for Doom! He says he wants power, such as the world has never known. He says he's going to make everyone pay for what they've done!'

"I said, 'Those are big words coming from a lad who isn't shaving yet. Val, sweeting, calm yourself down. You and he are only half grown. Don't go crowding him about when you're getting married. There's nothing that puts a lad off worse than having a girl clinging on him and making him feel trapped. As for what he said, he's only fifteen. Give him time, and he'll come around. When I was his age, I had a head full of plans myself. Getting married and having children weren't part of them.'

" 'How long?' she asked me.

" 'I don't know.' I said. 'He needs to go to a university, where there are more books than even he can read in a year, and he can't do that if he's got a wife and little ones.'

" 'What does he need to do that for?' she shot back. 'That's no life for a Rom!'

"It was bad in my caravan after that, for months. She was snappish and he was sulky. He could sulk something amazing when he put his mind to it."

"He still can." I remarked.

"He can at that, can't he?" Boris and I exchanged glances of perfect understanding. "Then he went off to America."


	43. Chapter 43

"Where is your granddaughter now?" I asked Boris, hoping the answer would be something like, 'She and her husband and children are living in Minsk (or New Zealand, or Ohio). Let me show you some pictures of my great-grandsons.' but Boris looked out over his pastures, and said:

"I don't know just where she is, right now. It must be five years since I saw her last. She still leads the traveler's life…I get word of her, now and then. She swears she'll never set foot on Latverian soil again. That was the hardest part of all. I had to choose between them, and I chose him. She was my flesh and blood—but I knew she'd be all right, among our people. He needed me more."

"So he never came around, regarding her?" If Boris regretted that Victor had not married Valeria, he certainly wasn't showing it.

"But he did. She wouldn't have him. I don't know what all went on, but that Diablo character, the one with the long droopy mustaches that claims he's a thousand years old, he kidnapped her, and told him he was holding her against his doing just what Diablo wanted. He rescued her—got rid of that Diablo—and then—But she wouldn't have him. I don't know why. She told me afterward that she loved Victor, and wanted to marry Victor, but Victor was as gone as if he were dead and buried. All that was left was someone who called himself Doom."

"That's just not true!" I said. From what I had heard of her, Valeria was selfish, shortsighted, and really unperceptive. "Was that before or after…?"

"He started wearing the mask? It was after. I hope with all my heart it wasn't the mask that put her off—because I would be ashamed that my granddaughter turned out to be as shallow as that." Boris shook his head.

I was wondering if this might somehow tie into Reed Richards and why no woman should marry Victor. "Well. You were saying that he went to America."

"So I was." Boris began.

At that moment, a blinding flash of white light seared my eyes. Afterimages danced in my vision as I blinked and rubbed, and when they cleared enough for me to see again, I said, "That was odd. I wonder what that was. Boris?" I looked over at the place where I had last seen him.

He wasn't there.

The horses weren't there. The horse farm wasn't there. All of them—man, horses, farm—all of them were missing. Not in an 'abducted by aliens' missing, nor even in a 'big smoking hole in the ground' missing—but as if they were never there. I was looking at a barley field.

It was undeniably the same piece of property—all the other landmarks were unchanged—the way the hill sloped, the tall trees, the mountains—it was only the man-made features that were different.

Something very strange was going on. The light in the sky had changed—the sun had been on my right, heading toward the west—but now it was on my left. It was morning again. I looked around, cupped my hands, and called out, "Boris?"

There was no reply.

At that point, seeing how different everything was, I wasn't really expecting one. I turned and headed back over the hill, to the road, where the car and driver should have been waiting. The road was there. The man and the vehicle weren't.

I was stranded, possibly in more ways than one. Was this another dimension? A time-jump? An alternate universe? I didn't know.

I had several options open to me, though, but before I decided which one to choose, I wanted to find out what was going on, so rather than return to the castle and find that Haasen was still king, or that some other unpleasant shock was waiting for me, I decided to retreat to a place I knew of, a place that was usually devoid of living inhabitants, yet from where I could reconnoiter—the Citadel of Doom.

Castle Doom wasn't just a residence—it was the center of government, a scientific research facility, a museum, and an art gallery. It teemed with people both day and night.

The Citadel of Doom was where Victor went when he wanted to be entirely alone—and it was where secrets were kept. If the United States decided to search for weapons of mass destruction in Latveria, they wouldn't find any, but not because there aren't any here… It was where he had brought me when I first came to Latveria three years ago, before my name was Joviana. I remembered it well.

It was once the stronghold of the Draasens, cousins to the Haasens. Smaller than Castle Doom, it was also less accessible, built as it was on top of and partly in a cliff above the river Klyne. I knew where the river was—we had followed it to get to Boris's horse farm. The Citadel was about twenty kilometers from the castle, but we had driven at least eighteen kilometers, so the Citadel could not be far away.

I set out, found the river, and traced my way up stream. After a while, I took off my sandals and walked in the shallows. In summer, the snowmelt water wasn't numbingly cold—just pleasantly so. Whatever had happened in that flash of light, everything around me seemed fairly normal. It was hard to get too anxious about it—that could wait until I found out just what was going on, and in the meantime, it was a lovely morning.

It was not more than half an hour before I saw the boiling mist from the waterfall, and raised my head to squint at the Citadel above, part and parcel of the cliff. The pale rocks had pockets of earth in little crevices here and there, where greenery and small trees had taken root and flourished where no one would suppose they could take hold.

The Citadel was on the other side of the river, but I could cross it easily enough by stepping from rock to rock. There were steps carved into the cliff that led right up to the small castle, but I knew better than to just climb them without thinking twice about it. There were five different death traps on the way up.

The first was easy to avoid— putting any weight on the metal handrail would complete an electrical circuit with a deadly amount of current running through it. I supported myself against the rock when I had to.

The second was a matter of remembering where not to step. Some of the stones had explosive charges underneath them.

The third was a passage where lasers fired at random. I called it the hopscotch stretch, as one had to hop over the sensors' fields to keep from getting hit. This trap, however, was not operating at all, because something had melted the walls and floor, making it run like lava. I carefully picked my way over the uneven surface, and went on.

The fourth, which was a nerve-impulse scrambler, was not immediately fatal—just incredibly painful. If someone persisted in remaining in its field, their heart would cease to beat once the nerve impulses were sufficiently disrupted. However, there was an off switch for this one—all I had to do was pass a retinal scan. The problem was that I might not be cleared in this other world.

I remembered the Heroic Law of Devices: any technological device, however sophisticated, can be circumvented by a Hero using a commonly available object—even a chewing gum wrapper— and, picking up a eye-shaped bit of quartz, I allowed the scanner to read that instead. (The converse Law of Devices is this: any device the hero comes up with in the nick of time—even if it has to be held together with baling wire and spit—will not only work, but outdo anything the opposition has on its side)

It blinked as its beam bounced around inside, rebounding from the flaws and fractures—and then decided I was Victor, and disengaged the field. The screen said he had been the last visitor—evidently I had got it to remember his scan. I kept climbing the stairs. If Victor had appeared out of nowhere at that point, and asked me again if I thought he was paranoid, my answer would have been a resounding 'Yes, you bloody well are!'

The last obstacle should have been a Doombot…

The Doombots were a defense that has been phased out for the most part. A few years ago, Victor got the idea to make robot duplicates of himself in armor, ones which were sophisticated enough to take his place and go undetected. They were even programmed to believe that they were him—except when they were in his presence or the presence of other Doombots.  
The flaw was that when a Doombot had been autonomous for too long, they kept on believing they were Victor when they shouldn't have. Plus, their judgment was never as good as his. He programmed them to act like the person he thinks he is, rather than the person he actually is. I was never fooled by one of them for long, not even from the start. They couldn't remember past conversations which they had never had, so they simply commanded silence when someone tried to talk to them.

Victor had stopped making them, and now only a handful were left. One was supposed to be on guard at the Citadel's door.

Instead there was a Thingbot, a robotic copy of Ben Grimm, which made no sense, because Victor hated Ben almost as much as he hated Reed.

Since this was a Thingbot, it would believe it was Ben, and it would act like Ben until I tried to enter the Citadel. Then it would attack me. I paused, and said gently, "Hello, Ben. What are you doing here?"

"Guarding the door."

"Who are you guarding it for?" I asked.

"The Master."

"What's his name?" I pressed.

"Doctor Doom."

That was enough for me. Like the robot in The Day The Earth Stood Still, all of Victor's robots had a code phrase that would reset their programming. In his case, the 'Klaatu Barada Nikto' was always 'Ave Doom, Rex Mundi'— the Latin for 'Hail Doom, King of the World.' I had been privy to that bit of information since I had to decapitate a Doombot with an axe one dark night. Victor said it would be easier on both his hardware and on me.

I said the words, and watched the glow in the eyes of the Thingbot suddenly die. I entered the portal of the Citadel without further delay.


	44. Chapter 44

Several hours later, I was doing something extremely familiar. I was waiting for Doctor Doom to grant me an audience.

It was possible that on seeing me, Victor would cry out, "Joviana—" and prove that he, too, remembered the world as it had been a few scant hours before, but I sincerely doubted it. The things I had learned in the Citadel were appalling.

Once inside the Citadel, I was fine, at least as long as I stayed out of the more sensitive areas, such as the weapons storage and the robotics labs. There was no one at all on the premises—only a few maintenance droids. There were signs of fairly recent occupation by someone who was very untidy in their personal living space, and who also liked to play with a flamethrower.

I had found a desktop and turned it on. Of course it required a password, but I knew that Victor tended to base his around a complicated equation involving either 'Cynthia' or 'Werner' at its base. From there I had to plug in variables based on the day, month, year, and phase of the moon—which was how I discovered that instead of going back in time some six hours to make it morning again, it was eighteen hours later.

On Latveria-net, I learned that the ruling royal family, the House of Doom, consisted of Victor Von Doom, his lovely wife of eighteen years, Valeria, their adopted son Kristoff, fourteen years old—and Victor's aged mother, Cynthia. There were several photographs of the family posted on the site, showing the women in formal gowns sparkling with jewels, and the men in formal uniforms with medals and orders on their chests.

Victor's face had no scar or flaw on it, but at almost thirty-eight, permanent character lines were beginning to show, and I did not like what they said of him. Yes, I would have expected scowl marks around his mouth, and a brow that was becoming furrowed by thought. I would have expected a haughty, proud look, and all these things were there.

The problem was that he looked petulant—even a touch fatuous.

If those traits showed faintly on the man, they were embodied in the son, Kristoff. I knew who Kristoff was in the world as it had been—when but a child, his mother had been killed, shortly after Victor had sworn he would protect her. Unable to keep his promise to the mother, he had assumed responsibility for the boy, who had no other relatives.

That, however, had been some years ago, before I ever set foot in Latveria, and I had no idea where Kristoff might be now in the world as I knew it. Kristoff had dropped out of sight, and was never mentioned.

Valeria Von Doom was a beauty. She had that true, blue-black hair that comes from the Rom heritage, for the Rom as a people originated in India, and spread out over Europe. They were the first people of color to set foot in most of it. Inevitably there was interbreeding, which is how there came to be Irish Rom with skin as pale as milk and strawberry blonde hair, but Valeria was clearly of purer Rom heritage than they were—and purer than Victor was. It was hard to tell much about her from the pictures, as she had enhanced her beauty to the point where emotion and character vanished in a sea of Botox. She too, was nearly thirty-eight.

I was not jealous of her. If Victor—the Victor that I knew—had truly wanted to marry her, if he had courted her as he treated me—they would have married. Victor knew how to make himself irresistible when he wanted. It followed that he had not really wanted.

It was Cynthia, after Victor, whose face intrigued me the most. I could not look on that time-worn face and not wonder if this Cynthia had not also sold her soul…

There was more on Latveria-net. The royal family was also a team of superheroes, for, using his knowledge of elemental magics, Doom (I made that distinction between him and Victor, my Victor) had given himself, his wife, and their adopted son powers.

Doctor Doom could make his body into any shape, and stretch any limb out to amazing lengths.

Valeria had telekinetic powers, and could summon and manipulate invisible force fields. She was called 'The Invincible Woman'.

Kristoff had gained the ability to burst into ever-regenerating flame, and could fly. He was called 'The Inhuman Torch'.

The fourth member of their team was called 'The It', and 'It' was Ben Grimm.

They called themselves the 'Fearsome Four.'

I knew that there was, or had been, a team called 'The Frightful Four', that sprung up in response to the Fantastic Four, but Victor had never been a part of it, and this group didn't seem to be a challenger of the group Richards put together—it seemed to be there instead of them.

At that point, I had to escape the controls and restrictions of Latveria-net, over which Victor has the same authority as a responsible parent on a home computer. Latverian users can access the rest of the web, but not unrestrictedly. The only person who has full freedom of speech is Victor. I did what I had to, and started to read up on the rest of the world.

It was worse. Most of the human population of the world was dead.

Mutants were the majority group.

The House of M—which was to say, Magneto—ruled the world.

The few million humans who were left were, for the most part, scattered all over the world, and they were tolerated because somebody had to grow the food and scrub the toilets. One exception to this oppression was Latveria, which maintained a largely human population, to the point where any mutant infants born within its borders were placed for adoption in other countries. I did not like the sound of that. It struck me as being rather hard on the parents of those babies, who might want them, mutant or not.

Latveria also offered asylum to any human who was facing persecution on genetic grounds, providing the asylum seeker was of good moral character. It was that which gave me the idea…

In the Citadel were my old identification papers, left from before I became Joviana. I retrieved them from where they were hidden—and finding them convinced me that this was indeed the world I knew. This was one of those 'end of the world as we know it' scenarios of which Magneto had spoken, the sort which were caused by somebody's powers and would go away after a while. The world would get back to normal. I just wanted it to be sooner rather than later.

What I wanted in the long term was for things like that never to happen again. It's ridiculous that somebody should be able to disrupt everything without warning and for the flimsiest reasons. I was still working on how to stop such nonsense, and I might have to keep on working for a long time to come.

With my identification in my pocket, I then left Latveria via a system of subterranean passageways, in a vehicle I borrowed from the Citadel, and then returned by way of Symarkia. When I reached the border check point, I told the guards I wanted to apply for citizenship in Latveria based on my one-quarter Latverian heritage (my late grandmother) and on my need for genetic asylum.

The guards seemed used to having refugees show up with nothing but the clothes on their backs, so I began the paperwork with little delay. I could not help but contrast it to how, in my own Latveria, the Serbian refugees had been treated—with them, it had been a matter of 'get them here and taken care of first, sort out the details later.'

I explained my reasons for needing genetic asylum—I had a gene complex for intelligence that was so unusual and my intelligence so high that I challenged, perhaps even contradicted, the theory of mutant superiority. I added that I had thrown a lye-based drain cleaner in the face of Sabertooth—not that I identified him by name, just that he was one of Magneto's people, and I capped off my plea with the statement, 'I might be pregnant.'

It wasn't precisely a lie, because although I was taking oral contraceptives, there is no absolutely failure-free method of birth control. A girl I went to high school with wound up pregnant because she didn't know taking antibiotics for her staph infection could interfere with the birth control pill.

Then it hit me. I hadn't taken a birth control pill in several days. Not, in fact, since the morning before all of this had begun—the morning of the day when Victor had come across me reading in the library, and invited me upstairs.

I ran over it in my mind just to be sure. The morning after I woke up in my new suite, none of my things were there yet, and with all the excitement—the announcement of the wedding, the Fantastic Four arriving, going to Bisitra's with my mother and Sue, the romantic dinner on the terrace, the...lesson in topography and the discovery that Victor was ticklish—no, no pill that day. One pill missed.

The next morning, I woke up alone, and was unhappy about it. I had not taken one then. I might have remembered later, but then Malice had taken me over. I spent the rest of the day on the island in the Bermuda triangle, and that night in New York. Two pills missed.

The third day was New York—interviews, shopping, lunch, Doctor Strange coming over for dinner, and a return visit to Hell. Three pills missed.

This was either day four, if I had jumped in time, or day five, if I had lived those eighteen hours and didn't recall them. I had missed either four or five pills, and the last one I took had been the first of a new pack. I had just finished the week off that allows for a 'period'. That meant that for the better part of two weeks, I had taken only one pill with hormones. At that point, the package insert, and any doctor, would advise that I throw away the rest of the pack and rely on another birth control method for the rest of the month.

I had missed pills before, but it hadn't mattered, because I only took them to help with my periods, which tended to be painful. It had never been important before.

I didn't know how soon I might ovulate, but I knew sperm could stay alive for days in that particular environment. I really might be pregnant soon. Active and lonely wigglers might even now be seeking out their target in my Fallopian tubes.

I wanted Victor. I wanted him with me, now, as he was before the world as we knew it came to an end, knowing who I was. I wanted to talk to him about that possibility, discuss the pros and cons of starting our family immediately.

I wanted him…

However, the man who entered Castle Doom, where I waited in the Great Hall, accompanied by his wife and his adopted son, wasn't him. He might be called Victor Von Doom—he might wear the cape and the colors—but he wasn't him.

TBC…


	45. Chapter 45

"Father, are we done with government business? May I be excused?" Kristoff whined.

"Patience," Doom counseled. "What have we here?" he asked, looking at me.

The aide who had accompanied me said "Another genetic refugee, my lord." He had a display module under his arm, my application pulled up on the read-out, and passed it over to this stranger who was there in place of Victor.

For he was a stranger, that tall, dark and handsome man. I was disconcerted by just how extremely handsome he was, and if I wasn't careful, I was going to be blushing, stammering and giggling out of nervousness. Imagining him naked, supposedly a cure for nervousness when speaking to a stranger, didn't help either. I had a pretty good idea of how he would look. That impulse vanished moments later, when he began to speak…

He looked at me without any recognition in his eyes. He took the module and looked at it. "Another American. Am I supposed to harbor every last one of them?"

"I beg your pardon," I said, in Latverian. "I am not here simply as a random petitioner, but as one who can claim Latverian blood. My father's mother was Latverian. She was born Anisoara Bran, in the village of Doomvale near Brantzia. I have documentary evidence to that effect, and if there are any descendants of her brother, Radu Bran, I would welcome the chance, not only to meet them, but to prove my claim through a DNA test.

"I regret that I have not come here under happier circumstances, as a visitor rather than a fugitive. I loved my grandmother dearly, and being here—where I can hear Latverian spoken, where I can smell the sorts of food she used to cook—makes her memory live again for me."

"At least this one speaks Latverian." Doom grumbled, and read over more of my history. "Occupation: Professional artist. What medium do you work in?"

"Calligraphy." Explaining what I really did was not an option, and I did not want to admit my last job in the United States under my old name was as a cashier. Calligraphy was the one area of art in which I had any talent.

"You should address us more formally when you speak to us." instructed Doom. "Your Majesty—your Excellency—your Grace—my lord—any of these would be acceptable." He caught a glimpse of himself in the Great Hall's mirror, and could not resist preening himself a little.

Oh, no. I had a problem with that. There was only one man who merited that much respect from me, and this smug looking poseur wasn't him. But I didn't want to be deported, so I said. "I apologize, my lord."

"Calligraphy?" hooted Kristoff. "Who does that anymore? All you need is a software program with some fonts."

"Quiet." Doom said to his adopted son. "Have you any samples?" he questioned me.

"I'm afraid they're spread over several square kilometers of the Serbian landscape. I arrived here as you see me, with no more than my identity papers and the clothes on my back."

"But with such a beautiful ring on your hand." said Valeria, purring. Valeria reminded me of Salma Hayek—petite, dark, and curvy. "Is it a real emerald, or a just a very fine peridot?"

"It is a real emerald, my lady. It was a gift." I told her, and turned back to Doom. "Loan me paper, pen and ink, and I will prove my skills."

He was continuing to review my application. "Reason for seeking asylum—gene complex for exceptional intelligence. How intelligent are you?"

"My IQ has been tested at 167."

"Why are you merely a calligrapher, then?" Doom looked at me, as if to challenge what I had said of myself

"I like it, I'm good at it, and it gives me a great deal of time in which to think." I replied.

"And of what do you think?" he countered.

"All sorts of things." was my response.

"As an example?" he asked.

"If the costumed adventurer Thor is really the thunder god of the Vikings, to whom they sacrificed and sang, who went to the frost giants dressed as a bride when their king demanded Freya's hand, and ate eight whole salmon, an ox, and drank three big barrels of mead, the same Thor who tried to drink the sea from an enchanted horn, and wrestled with Old Age itself—why, then, is he so neat, so clean, so well dressed and civilized? The smells of blood, smoke, grease and sweat should be ingrained in him as the odor in a block of sandalwood. Why does his hammer Mjollnir look nothing like the representations of antiquity? I was in his presence once, and he smelled faintly of ozone and a commonly available white soap. Soap? When the myths were forged, soap did not exist! What has happened to him?"

"Who cares?" asked Kristoff, who I positively disliked at that point.

"What very odd thoughts for you to be thinking." Doom stated. "You are also fleeing retribution because you flung lye in a mutant's face, and you think you might be pregnant."

"Yes. My lord," I added.

"Might I see your ring a little more closely?" asked Valeria.

I looked at her, at her avid eyes and her smooth, untroubled brow, and again thought: Botox. I amended my thought to: Enchantment, a magic of some sort.

"Of course, my lady." I extended my hand.

She took it, spreading my fingers a little wider than was comfortable. "Lovely. This is a very nice stone…Is your lover very rich, that he can make you presents like this? It was a gift from a man, wasn't it?"

"Yes, from my—fiancé. It was extravagant of him—perhaps too extravagant."

"I could see it much more clearly if you were to take it off." she hinted, unsubtly.

"Where is your fiancé now?" queried Doom.

"I don't know," and the absence of Victor flared up in my being like the pain of a toothache when the codeine is wearing off. "Dead—imprisoned—missing. Not here. Not with me." Looking at this poor substitute for him did not help. "I know, my lord, that you have many other pressing matters to think of than one poor wanderer without a home or a country, but I am most anxious to know what will become of me. What of my application?"

"What of it?" he asked, and glanced at his wife, who still held my hand in a way that was gradually becoming painful. She looked at him, and at me, and quite pointedly at my ring.

I could hardly believe it.

The unstated truth of it was, they were demanding my ring as the price for my citizenship.

I did not want to give it up. It was Victor's gift to me, the only tangible link I had to the world as it was and to the Victor I knew, and, looking at it strictly from a practical point of view, it was the only thing I had about me that I could turn into ready money.

On the other hand, I didn't want to be deported. I needed to stay in Latveria.

"Since you admire my ring so much, my lady, perhaps you will accept it as a token of my esteem?" I slipped it off my finger and held it out, flat on my hand.

"Oh, why, thank you!" she said—not to me, but to Doom. She then kissed him on the cheek, and they smirked—yes, smirked, that loathsome and nauseating expression—at each other.

My jaw wanted to drop. I didn't let it.

"Your application for citizenship is granted." Doom said. "Welcome to Latveria."

"Can I go now?" asked Kristoff. We had walked a little further into the castle, and where the conservatory should have been, there was an indoor pool, with about half a dozen aspiring models, allteenage girlsin bikinis, lounged and chatted. "I've got some celebrating to do!" His eyes roamed over their figures.

"Of course, my son. You made me proud today. Go enjoy yourself."

"Oh, I plan to!" Kristoff responded.

His father watched as the teen sauntered over to two of the girls and announced, "You! And you! You're with me."

"P-prince Kristoff?" Their expressions said they weren't altogether happy with this honor.

As he steered them toward another door, talking about a party up in his suite, Doom said to his wife, "Maybe it's time I sat my young ward down and talked to him about keeping those baser instincts of his under control. Too many of his 'parties' end up with his little playmates recovering in the burn unit."

Valeria stretched herself against him and gently chided him, "Leave him be, darling. He's young. He'll have adult responsibilities soon enough. For now, let him have his fun."

The implications of what I had just seen and heard went through me and left me sickened.

Kristoff—who was no more than fourteen or fifteen—was permitted—even encouraged-to indulge himself with several girls—I could imagine what went on at those 'parties'.

In the process, he hurt them, severely enough to warrant hospitalization.

His foster mother only said that he was young and should have his fun.

And his foster father only spoke of giving him a talking-to about it.

Extorting my ring had been crass, but this—?

These people were monsters.


	46. Chapter 46

As horrified as I was, there was nothing I could do—at least at that moment—about this situation and these people. I had some thorny problems of my own—I had no money and nowhere to stay. Ultimately I could have retreated to the Citadel and done a bit more computer hacking to correct that, but I was hoping to stick around the castle, in the open.

The moment that I handed over my ring, I ceased to be of interest to the Dooms. I might as well have ceased to exist. They were walking away when I raised my voice slightly and called after them: "My lord?"

Doom stopped, and turned to look back at me. "Yes?" he asked, his voice tainted with annoyance. "You go on, dear, I'll catch up with you." he told Valeria.

"I am glad it pleases you to jest with me, but such are my circumstances that I am afraid I cannot appreciate the humor in it." I said, casting my eyes down meekly and modestly, although I wanted to snarl. In Memoirs of a Geisha, much is made of the power of a woman's eyes, but I've always felt I could do more with my voice, and one key is to keep my tone and volume low. A woman speaking in a loud shrill voice is not taken seriously—least of all by men.

"How am I jesting with you?" he asked. I had puzzled him.

"Knowing me to be friendless and alone, without a roof over my head, a change of clothes, without even the wherewithal to buy a cup of coffee—since I impulsively and spontaneously gave my one negotiable asset to your lady wife—you turn and walk away, pretending to leave me here, destitute."

"I do not see where that concerns me—or where the joke is in it." He was serious.

What was wrong with this man? "I wonder that you can say such things straight-faced. I know what is said of Victor Von Doom—the compassion and care he takes of his people, his generosity and benevolence, and so I know you are pleased to jest with me." Butter would not have melted in my mouth. I was not thinking or speaking of this Doom when I said that…

He liked the sound of that. "When the ring is appraised, you will receive fair compensation. In the meantime—" he said to an aide—"see that she receives five thousand euros and find her a room somewhere in this pile.":

"Thank you, my lord. I knew it could not be otherwise." I said. Let him interpret my last sentence as, 'I knew you were only joking, that you are a fair and just man'. What I meant was 'I knew I could talk you into doing what I wanted.'

They gave me my old room—the same one I had lived in for three years. It seemed—smaller than I remembered it, the ceiling lower, the colors faded. I set out to explore this version of the castle as I would if I had never been there before.

Some of it was the same, other parts were quite different. The indoor pool where the conservatory should have been, for example. Nor was the tower as I knew it—the family lived elsewhere in the castle. That made me feel a little better. I did not like to think of these people living where Victor and I lived—or of that debauched youth holding his 'parties' in the nursery suite.

Why did this Doom and his Valeria have no children born to them? Why had they adopted? I supposed that depended on whether these alterations to the nature of reality were only cosmetic, or whether they went to the bone. If someone was moving people around as if they were dolls in a doll house, that was one thing, but if this person who had altered our world could truly alter history—not just people's memories of it, but the real events—that was quite another. In the first case, they had no children because they had not been together—in the second, there had to be a real reason.

Which was it? I was inclined to think the second, because this version of Victor Von Doom was fundamentally different in his character from my Victor. A simple alteration, a re-setting of the stage, as it were—would not be enough to change that.

I had proof when I spotted Boris deep in the bowels of the castle, and would up overhearing a brief exchange between Doom, the It—poor Ben—and Boris that illuminated why this Doom was who he was.

I knew the sound of Doom's steps—that was no different—followed by the grating, bag-of-rocks sound of Ben walking behind him, and I concealed myself as they passed.

"Come along, my friend, into your pen." came Doom's voice to my ears, sounding jovial. I heard the creak of a gated door. Doom continued, condescendingly, "You did well today, my pet. Very well."

Ben's voice, tiny, humbled, humiliated: "fankyew." The way a child might say 'Thank you' to a disciplinarian who insists on being thanked for giving him a whipping to teach him better.

Doom called, "Boris! Extra meat today for the It! Extra rations of whatever he wants. Clean blankets! And hose out the filth in this cage!" The word filth was said with great disgust. After a few more words, he left, and Boris got to work. I moved closer and watched. I saw for myself the space that was allotted to Ben Grimm—who, as much as Victor hated him, was always treated as an honorable foe, in the world as I knew it.

This inferior version of Doom housed the It, his teammate, in a crate like an animal—no, in conditions that would bring animal rights groups to their feet. It was almost too small for Ben to stand up or lie down in. There was befouled straw on the floor, slop-buckets, no consideration made for his comfort or wellbeing—and Boris, far more bent and weary than the Boris I knew—was having to clean it and tend to him on his own. He seemed to have a great deal of trouble getting around. That was only natural, if he had to perform this kind of heavy manual labor every day. Boris was old, and getting frail.

Ben sat in a corner of his cage and let Boris work around him. He made no move to help the elderly Rom—he was slumped in a way that said exhaustion and despair had smothered his spirit to the point of extinction.

I wanted to cry, but anger warred with pity in me. I had to leave there. I could not go on looking at the two of them. At that point, I was ready to find Doom and smash his face in myself.

In this version of the world, Cynthia Von Doom was not dead. She had raised Doom, not Boris—and the Cynthia of the reality I knew demonstrably did not have the best judgment. No one who would trust Mephisto and sell her soul could be said to have the best judgment.

Boris had been more to Victor than someone who gave him shelter and fed him—he had been a role model. As quiet and humble as Boris was, it was he who had taught Victor what it was to give one's word, and what it was to keep it—not just at the time, but to go on keeping it, year in and year out. He had taught Victor the meaning of responsibility, and he did it by example. A child might hear what you say, but they pay very close attention to what you do…

It was from Boris that Victor had learned to be, not just a man, but an honorable man.

This Doom had never learned any of those lessons, that much was clear. And—what if this Cynthia had also sold her soul, but not died? What would Doom have learned from her?

The castle, which had always felt like a haven to me, suddenly felt as though it threatened to crush me. I had to get away from it, if only for a while. I went down into Doomstadt.

Everywhere I went—everywhere I looked in Doomstadt, I saw the ill effects that this dishonorable, inconsiderate Doom had wrought upon Latveria. It was cheapened, commercialized, and shabby. Victor had been very careful about what changes he made, what new buildings he put up. No one had been careful here.

There were beggars in the main squares—homeless persons in the heart of Doomstadt. No one was homeless in Victor's Latveria. There were resources and facilities to care for the aged and the mentally ill.

I did some shopping—I needed clothing—I bought a sleep mask, not so much out of hope as because I wanted to get used to sleeping with one on—some toiletries—and I visited an art store.

If I was going to pass myself off as a professional calligrapher, I needed the tools of my trade. They had a nice selection in the shop, and I selected inks, gouaches, metallic powders, gold leaf and the sizing to make it adhere to paper, a porcelain palette, fine sable brushes, various papers, a scalpel-like cutting tool or three, a portfolio to store my work—until all I needed was one last essential—pens to write with.

These days, most pens came in pieces— the shaft, be it plastic, wood, or metal— which one held, and interchangeable metal nibs which one wrote with. The store had as good a selection of those as I could hope for, but they also had an array of glass pens, imported from Venice, in a locked display case.

I had a glass pen once, which I received as a gift. It had been beautiful, but as a writing instrument it had left a lot to be desired. I had found out its shortcomings were common to most glass pens—it was awkward to hold, clumsy to write with, the ink flowed erratically and ran out immediately. Nor were they consistent from pen to pen—they were made by hand, and the writing tips varied too much. I would be better off if I were to buy a bunch of felt tip pens that were cut at an angle that made any writing look like calligraphy.

All of these things notwithstanding, I was going to buy not just one glass pen, but several.

They were not metal—that was the important thing. Who had obviously benefited the most from this change in reality? Magneto. Who, therefore, would I have to confront before all of this could be sorted out? Magneto. It would be an excellent thing if I had at hand a weapon that his powers could neither affect nor detect.

Victor, if faced with the same conundrum, would have sat down and designed a device, then spent days—even weeks—developing it, building it, testing it, altering it. Maybe that was because he was male, or because the curse of super heroism turned even him into a part-time idiot—or simply because complicating things came naturally to him, but that was Victor. I preferred to look around me and ask myself—what around here can I use to fight Magneto? That was why I had gone under the sink on the island in the Bermuda Triangle for the cleaning solutions.

I had considered going to a house wares store and buying a ceramic kitchen knife, but if, as I suspected, I was being followed, that would look odd. Why would I be buying a knife, when I had no kitchen? These pens were a much better idea. They didn't even look like weapons. It would be natural for me to have them—they might cause a comment or two, but they wouldn't arouse suspicion.

I went up to the front counter and paid for everything I had chosen so far, to prove I was a serious customer and not just a waste of their time. Then I asked to see and try the pens.

Given that I had shown and sown good faith by buying so much already, they were happy to let me uncork my ink, break open a pack of paper, and test how the pens wrote. I dipped the nib of the first, lowered it to paper, and wrote, in my best Gothic script,

'Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me  
From mine own library with volumes that   
I prize above my dukedome.'

It was a quote from Shakespeare's Tempest—lines spoken by Prospero, when he tells his daughter how he was usurped and exiled. Well, I felt usurped and exiled at that moment, so it fit. I picked up another pen, and kept writing.

Forty-five minutes later, I had not only tried every single glass pen in stock and chosen three that were the least difficult to write with—fine-tipped, medium, and wide—I had a stack of samples, a dozen spectators, and a very happy shop owner who wanted me to come in again to do more demonstrations and give classes—for money. While I wrote, he had sold several books on calligraphy, in addition to pens, paper and ink to people who were inspired by watching me.

What had that idiot Kristoff said? 'Who bothers with that anymore? All you need is a software program with some fonts!' There is nothing like watching the marriage of line and meaning come off the end of a pen.

If I was who I was claiming to be, I would have jumped at the chance to make money by teaching classes, so we negotiated, and I agreed to give my first official demonstration on Sunday…

Sunday was supposed to be my wedding day.

I agreed anyway, and returned to the castle, where there was a sight that lifted my spirits—Kristoff covered from head to toe, in semi-solid grey flame-retardant goop, and complaining about it at the top of his lungs.

"I'm telling you, Father, I don't know what happened! One minute I was—we were—Everything was fine, and then this shit—."

"Watch your language!" snapped Doom. "Vulgarity is the sign of a poor vocabulary and a slow wit."

"Sorry! This stuff came shooting out all over my suite, everywhere! I thought the system was deactivated in my rooms. What went wrong?" He wiped a blob of the goop off his ear. "All my stuff is ruined!" he whined.

"Where is that engineer? I don't know what went wrong either. And stop whining. It's unmanly. Things can be replaced. A system malfunction is not to be taken lightly. Engineer!" bellowed Doom.

"I don't know what happened, sir." said the engineer nervously. "It was deactivated, as you commanded, but for some reason, it came back on line—and not just on line, but upgraded to high-priority. It won't turn off. The Prince's rooms are overflowing, and the excess is starting to flow out into the corridor."

I kept a straight face as I went back to my room, but it wasn't easy.

The lift that gave my mood didn't last. I was too aware of my situation. I put my purchases away, took a shower, and lay down on the bed. I had missed at least two meals, owing to the time change, but I was not hungry. I doubted I could eat if I forced myself to try.

I was back in the same old creaky bed I had slept in for three years.

Alone.

It felt more alone than ever.

I knew the world would return to normal, that it was just a matter of time, but 'eventually' was not 'now' and 'now' was where I was.

I was not home; home was where was Victor was. I could live without him, but I could not thrive.

I didn't even feel like reading.

After a while, I slept.

A/N: Next chapter—naughty stuff!


	47. Chapter 47

I was awakened suddenly by a hand clamped down over my mouth. I reacted immediately. I bit it. I also thrashed and kicked, but since it was not a disembodied hand (the universe in which I live being one in which stranger things happen) but one which was attached to a very large, very strong man who had pinned me down, it didn't do much, and I was tangled up in the bedclothes as well.

So I bit down even harder, and was rewarded by a hiss of pain. I redoubled my efforts to get out from under whoever this was, and started to grind my teeth together, going for the bone. He said something when I got an elbow into the region of his solar plexus, and I was doing my best to draw blood when he suddenly replaced his with his mouth, and kissed me, roughly.

There was an unevenness to his lips—scar tissue. About at that point, my brain, which was only just catching up to my instincts, replayed what he had said when I got my elbow in. 'Jovian—'.

I had not given my name as Joviana to anyone. I had been using my old name. That, his lips, and the familiarity of his kiss, his smell, of everything else about him…

This was Victor. My Victor.

I bit him again.

But not as hard this time.

One moment we were fighting, the next—. Well, we were still struggling, but I wasn't seriously trying to fend him off any more. All the questions such as 'What's going on?' got set aside for the moment. I was extremely happy it was him, I was already in bed, and he was not in armor. I did keep struggling and thrashing as he got the bedclothes back, making him keep hold of my hands and my legs pinned down.

He seemed to enjoy this too, and when he got my nightgown hauled up—the material never tears that easily—he thrust his hand directly between my legs, and chuckled. I was already getting slippery.

Anything truly non-consensual would have outraged and terrified me, but that was not what was going on. This was more like a very, very grown-up version of make-believe, and we both knew it. It was an aspect of love making we had not returned to since that first time, and it was very exciting—for us both. If I was getting aroused fast, he was ready right now, and wasn't going to wait.

Even while I fought, I was kissing him back just as savagely, and I didn't do any of the last ditch self-defense moves I could have done. Plus, a giggle escaped out of me every now and then.

The bed set up a protest, creaking and groaning alarmingly, as he bend his head to ravish my breasts with his mouth, and I clawed at his back, hauling up his shirt so I could feel his skin. He moved his hand from between my legs to between his own, and a moment later had freed himself from his pants. Then he forced my legs apart and drove a magnificent erection home into me.

Sex between us just kept getting better. I was moving with him, enthusiastically, climbing the rollercoaster hill to orgasm. He was panting hoarsely as he thrust, one hand steadying himself against the headboard, which was banging against the wall in time with our rhythm, and using the other hand to give me what I needed. I was so sensitized that his touch was nearly painful. I bit his shoulder as I came, the spasms wracking me and wringing me out. It was glorious.

Then he let himself come—and it was then that the bed slats gave way, but by then there was no stopping him, not even though the left side of the bed dropped a good fifteen centimeters. I started laughing while he was still groaning, and once he got his breath back, he joined in too.

"You bit me!" he said, in mock outrage.

"I was only serious the first time. You came in here and started ravishing me! You're lucky I didn't manage to get my knee in like I did to Mastermind—you weren't wearing armor." I pointed out.

"Treason!" he accused me, chuckling again. "I had not planned to—not precisely—but the situation was too like those months when I thought of you, lying here, and imagined..."

"Oh--. I see." What an interesting image that was—Victor upstairs, frustrated, and me, here, equally so, but unaware…

"Yes. I do not care for this bed of yours. Its sense of timing is perverse and mischievous." he said.

"Don't blame the bed!" I laughed. "You're the one who broke it. I successfully achieved orgasm in it probably a thousand times over the last three years without ever once breaking it—although doing it alone was much less stressful on the bed frame. Can we get up? This is not comfortable." We had slid down the tilted mattress to rest against the wall, with me on the bottom.

"Certainly, my dear. I don't think it's broken—I believe the slats bent and slipped out."

He was right. After he put his informal mask on and I took mine off, we rebuilt the bed and got back in it.

"The foremost question in my mind is, 'What's going on?'" I told him. "Or, alternately, 'Who is responsible and how do we get them to put the world back the way it was?'"

"I don't know as yet. I have been gathering information, however," Victor continued. "I was in the middle of a communication when the connection was severed for no apparent reason. I turned to discover that my chamber was markedly altered in the split second it took for me to blink. Realizing it would be fruitless to call the castle consol and demand an explanation, I went to an alternate command center, one which I alone know of and have access to. From there I discovered what you, too, must have learned—of the grotesque impostors who sully and besmirch the name of Doom—and the memory of those who I once held dear."

"I was speaking to Boris, out at his horse farm, when it happened." I said. "You're right, I went to the Citadel—it was close enough to walk to, and I went by way of the river, avoiding the roads. No one saw me, and from the Citadel I hacked into a computer. I also erased the surveillance that did spot me. Then I left Latveria by way of the underground, and returned by the surface roads, where I applied for citizenship and asylum."

"The rest I know. I knew it was you—but until that venal harpy remarked upon your ring, I did not know that you, too, had not been affected by whatever or whoever has brought the world as we know it to an end—this time."

"Yes—this time. This kind of foolishness has got to stop happening. The world may snap back to normal like a rubber band every time, but all these dramatic changes are utterly unnecessary and trying to the nerves. Not to mention especially revolting in this instance. If you witnessed my encounter with those—imposters, did you also see how Benjamin Grimm is housed, and who it is that looks after him?"

"No. My mind was occupied elsewhere—I watched a few minutes of that dissolute puppy that goes by the name of my former ward, and his debased cavorting, and decided it had to be brought to an end. I accessed the medical files of those 'little playmates' who end up in the burn unit, and for that alone I shall see him suffer as he has never imagined—and the one who pretends to my name and my place, I shall rip his head from his body."

"Why—Not that I'm arguing or pleading for clemency for them, because I agree in sentiment if not to the particulars—but what was the specific reason?"

"My dear, I hardly like to speak of it to you. It is wretched, nauseating and obscene." he said, heavily. "The burns were not all external. At least one of those unfortunate girls will never be able to have children as a direct consequence of her injuries."

I had to be silent for a moment. "Ben Grimm is allowed to lie in his own filth, until Boris must clean it up." was my eventual rejoinder. "The imposter is a man without decency, feeling or honor. I am amazed that Valeria would allow her grandfather to suffer the way he does, but this family are all cut from the same cloth. I can only wonder what your mother—I mean, his mother—must be like."

"That is no more Valeria than the boy is Kristoff—or Christopher, as he now calls himself." spat Victor.

"Where is the real Kristoff?" I asked. "I knew his name, and that he had been your ward for a time, but he is never spoken of."

"He could be anywhere." Victor said. "Or, rather, anywhen, as he is traveling through the timestream with his purported father, Nathaniel Richards."

"Nathaniel Richards?" I asked, startled. "You mean Reed Richards' father? They're brothers—half-brothers?"

"Possibly, although I doubt it. I will admit that I was not wholly without fault in our estrangement, but it was Christopher who severed all connection, when he announced he was my enemy's half-brother, and was going to go off with his real father."

Oooh, whatever Victor had done to cause a rift, it must have been very bad. He admitted he had done something to his ward. I had never heard him acknowledge he was responsible for something going wrong before. "Why do you doubt it?"

"Nathaniel Richards is, to put it bluntly, 'an old nutter'. He abandoned his family to travel through time, which he has done for an unknowably long time, and is prone to claim responsibility for any number of artistic, cultural, and scientific developments in human history.

"He also claims that he fathered me, as well—which calumny against the honor of both my mother and my father, I have personally disproved through genetic testing."

"Kristoff should have demanded proof, then." I commented. "He whisked Franklin Richards around through time behind him for a while, did he not? I seem to remember that for some months Franklin was a teenager, before the entire business was made to have never happened. I don't think Nathaniel Richards can be a responsible person to be in charge of a teenager…Could it be he who is responsible for this world-change?"

"It is possible, although again, I doubt it. He is not a coherent enough individual to arrange all of this as it is—nor would he have the aggressively pro-mutant agenda the one responsible has. Come—now that my knees are no longer shaky from our extremely pleasurable exertions, I want to take you to the private command center, that together we may look further into these mysteries."

We got up, and I put on some clothes. "Is anyone going to spot us—or wonder with whom I was making so much noise so soon after I arrived in Latveria?" I asked.

"No—not so long as this flower remains alive." He took a rose from a glass of water. "Do you know the meaning of the term 'sub-rosa'?"

"Under the rose," I translated. "It means that something—a plan, a conversation, whatever—is meant to be kept confidential. Roses were painted or molded on the ceilings of chambers, especially legal or governmental ones, to remind people of that."

"You are correct. But why that particular phrase? Because the rose is the vital component of a spell that casts a sphere of absolute privacy around it, thus ensuring that a conversation cannot be overheard. Take the rose—the zone it affects is not large."

We left my room, and went down the corridor. "The painted roses have no effect, of course, being but a clumsy attempt to invoke the magic. The spell remains effective—if one knows how to cast it. What is more, my magics will go undetected by the impostor—since my power signature is effectively identical to his."

We reached an area of stone wall, which Victor caused to open, revealing a staircase leading down. "The stairs here are rather narrow, which is why I removed my armor. Watch your step, my dear…"

"Your impostor." I said. "Would you mind if I were to get in a blow or two of my own before you start in on him? I cannot bear to look at him, he disgusts me so much."

"I will hold his arms for you, that you might have a better target." promised my husband. "Here we are…" I entered a chamber that was lined with monitors and bristled with equipment on every possible surface. All of it centered upon a single chair, the only one in the room. "The seat is yours." he said.

I sat, looking at monitors that showed several different interior views of rooms in the castle. One was obviously Kristoff's, as several servants were doing their best to clean up the flame-retardant. The second was a splendid sitting room where Cynthia von Doom, in a wheelchair sat by a roaring fire and looked contemplatively into the dancing flames.

Another was a dressing room, where Valeria studied her reflection in the mirror while an attendant maid brushed out her hair. While I watched, Valeria held up her hand and studied 'her' new emerald ring, letting the light hit the diamonds that surrounded it, and making the green fire burn deep. The lady's maid must have hit a tangle and pulled Valeria's hair, because she winced, and, half-turning, backhanded the woman across the face, drawing blood.

The woman cried out, dropped the brush, and clutched her injured cheek, while I heard Valeria's voice, made ghost-like by the low volume, say, "Now look—there's blood on my ring, and emeralds are delicate! Clumsy cow!"

"She will grovel and beg your forgiveness on her knees when she returns your ring to you." came Victor's voice from above me.

"I would rather she begged her maid's forgiveness." I said. "I don't need for her to grovel to me. I wouldn't enjoy it. I would rather put this behind us as quickly and expediently as possible—for I don't want to dwell on the possibility that I might become like her—greedy, covetous, indulgent of myself and my children, abusive to those around me."

"You could not become like her. The real Valeria herself would never have become that—." He paused. "You surprise me yet again."

"How so?"

"I had anticipated with some dread a show of jealous insecurity, coupled with demands to know all about my association with the real woman, and tearful pleading to hear that she means nothing to me anymore. You show no sign of wanting to start a scene."

"I hope I would never do or say anything so boring." I could not keep a smile out of my voice. "I am humanly curious, and I would like to hear your side of the matter—but Boris had already told me something about her, when we were talking earlier, and I reached my own conclusions about your relationship with her."

"These conclusions were?" he asked

"That you and she do not sound as if you would have been very compatible in the long run. One might as well try to empty the ocean with a teaspoon as to thwart you in your ambitions—it cannot be done, and even if it could, what would one do with all the water? There's more to it than that, but—what is Kristoff doing now?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I had seen the teen enter his suite and heard order the servants to stop what they were doing and leave him alone until he said otherwise. Now we watched as he opened a drawer of his nightstand and, glancing around him furtively and guiltily, reach into the very back of it, coming out with a packet.

"Drugs." I said, disgusted. "It lacked only that."

"Never mind him at this moment." Victor said. "The imposter has come to pay a call on his mother."

TBC….

* * *

A/N: It is likely thatvery soon I shall start puttinga PGversion of this story up. To my surprise, and of necessity, it goes in some different directions, and requires different dialog in places. Just thought I'd warn you all... 


	48. Chapter 48

"Mother?" the imposter inquired.

The woman in the wheelchair turned her head. "Victor! Come here, dear." She held out her hand.

He crossed the room to smile down at her, clasp her hand lightly in his, and said. "You're looking lovely today. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, quite well. A little warm, perhaps…" said Cynthia von Doom. It was difficult to read their facial expressions, as the fire was the only source of light in the room, and the flames cast unexpected flickers and shadows that were never still. She sounded—like an elderly woman, pleasant enough.

I glanced up at Victor, but of course the mask was unreadable.

"Where are your attendants?" His head snapped around. "They've put you too close to the fire. I'll have every inch of skin flayed—."

"No, no. I'm all right. Here. Sit by me and tell me all about your day. Tell Mother what you've been up to—where you've gone, what and who you've seen."

The impostor took a seat in an arm chair next to the wheel chair, and said. "Mother, I have a thought—I can't call it a plan as yet, it's far too soon. Your dearest wish has always been for a grandchild of your own blood. There may be a way that I can gratify that wish."

"My dearest wish is that you should become the greatest ruler the world has ever seen—but you can call my wish for a real grandchild my second dearest. But Valeria—if she could not when she was younger, the chances of her conceiving now must be very slight."

"I know. I have never reproached her with her childlessness, and never shall. Nor do I intend to divorce her or put her aside. I am thinking of employing a surrogate—a fertile woman, who would, for the proper price, agree to be artificially inseminated, bear my child, and surrender it upon its birth."

"Oh!" said Cynthia. "What a sensible idea. I wonder that you didn't think of it long ago."

"As it happens, I did—the problem was that I had never found a woman with the traits I would have liked to see my children inherit. Today I finally did." said the impostor Doom

'Uh-oh." I said aloud, to Victor.

The impostor continued. "Today another genetic refugee came looking for asylum and citizenship—an American woman, tall, well-spoken—young, only twenty-five—thoughtful—not, perhaps, as perfectly lovely as Valeria is, but good-looking, and with good bone structure. Dark hair—grey-green eyes. Porcelain complexion. Most important of all, extremely intelligent. Moreover, she may be pregnant."

"'May be?'" asked his mother. "But if she is pregnant already, although it speaks well of her fertility, how will you put your idea into motion?"

"I hope that she is—at least for the next month or so. If she is pregnant, then after it is certain, I will see to it she takes, unbeknownst to her, something that will—evict the current inhabitant of her womb. Nothing too harsh—certainly nothing injurious—the mildest possible abortifacent. In the earliest stages, even a laxative can be enough to dislodge a fetus. Then, after a few months have gone by, to give her time to fully recover, physically and emotionally—I would then suggest to her that she consider the benefits to be derived from surrogacy."

I had heard Victor's breathing grow harsh and ragged as the two of them discussed me, so I was surprised when his next statement came out as calmly and coolly as it did.

"I have changed my mind." he said.

"About what?" I asked.

"I am not going to rip off his head—not immediately. I am going to employ more traditional methods in dealing with him. I believe I shall make an incision in his abdomen, draw out his intestines and show them to him while he yet lives. I will do this in full view of his mother and his wife. Then I shall feed his entrails to vermin, that before he dies he may see himself devoured alive. Even to hear him speak of this enrages me beyond measure, when it is only in the abstract and could not possibly be actualized. "

I had already decided to take statements like that in my stride. There was no use getting upset about simple statements—that could wait until he showed signs of putting them into effect. I had something more important on my mind.

I had to tell him about the pills I had missed at some time. The impostor and his mother went on talking, but I disregarded them.

"Perhaps I should have mentioned this before you sent in fresh reinforcements." I began, thinking of the new batch of spermatozoa that were now looking to take up residency.

"Before I did what?" he asked, his attention on the mother and son before us. "Look—this setting shows the Kirillian aura of these two. Note how his mother's aura is—."

"I've missed five birth control pills by now—perhaps six. Every morning since our relationship was consummated, in fact."

He froze—then his head turned toward me, and his eyes met mine. I kept on speaking. "I don't think I've ovulated yet—I always had some abdominal tenderness around the relevant ovary—but I could at any time. Or it might take my body a month or two to sort out its hormones and start up again. When I said I might be pregnant, I wasn't lying—it was more like speculating. I don't know what sort of timetable you had in mind, but I've been thinking it over, and there are a lot of advantages to starting—or trying to start— a baby now. If you disagree, I could get a morning-after pill, and—."

"Disagree? Joviana! The only news that might please me more is the news that we have succeeded." The pleasure in his voice was obvious. He took my hands and drew me to my feet. "I had reconciled myself to waiting for some years, if necessary, until you were certain you were ready."

"Yes, well, I could be uncertain for the rest of my life, but my best fertile years are now. I'll work on being certain when the time comes. And it may not be easy to get me pregnant, so—best to give us some lead time."

He put his hands on my shoulders, and at looked me with warmth and tenderness. "I will save my rejoicing for the time when there will be something concrete to celebrate. But for now—You make me very happy, my dear." He pulled me close, kissed me, and then held me, my head against his chest, the edge of the mask brushing my hair.

"I am too happy." I said. "Even the world as we know it coming to an end is not enough to keep me from being afraid that the gods will do something terrible to us, because they're jealous of this much happiness." His arms tightened around me.

"Now." I said, after several minutes spent like that in rapt silence. "What are they up to?"

The impostor Doom and his mother were still talking. "Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself about, Mother. Just attending to affairs of state, dealing with..."

She interrupted him. "Oh, Victor, don't tell me you've been running errands again for that horrible mutant, that Magneto."

"Doom does not run errands, Mother. I simply did what was in the best interests of Latveria. My kingdom."

"It is yours only for so long as it pleases him that you should have it." She scolded him. "I only want what is best for you, my dear. I speak out of love. You should have what you deserve."

"I shall attend to that." said Victor, beside me in the secret command center.

Both the impostor's head and his mother's turned—someone was at the door. "My lord—your presence is requested in the conferencing chamber."

"Not now." The false Doom waved him away.

The man persisted. "The request comes from the House of M."

"This should prove interesting." said Victor, and a few keystrokes later, we witnessed both sides of another conversation.

Pietro Maximoff, the costumed adventurer Quicksilver, had his father's aquiline features and silver hair, but he was prematurely so. He was somewhere on the younger side of thirty, I guessed. His power was the ability to move at extraordinarily high speed, and it showed in his body language—he was fidgety, restless, his image on the videophone screen blurring with every twitch.

"Pietro." said the impostor Doom dryly.

"Doom." The other man acknowledged him curtly. "I have a message for you. My father requests your presence in Genosha."

"I'm sorry, Pietro. I'm just recently returned to Latveria. I have other business to attend to first. Tell Magneto I'll contact him at my earliest convenience." He emphasized the word 'my' as he said it, and cut the contact.

A moment later—merely a moment—the door to the conference chamber opened, and Quicksilver stood there, steaming with perspiration. "Doom." he said. "You misunderstand. Magneto's request—was not a request."

I saw the hand of the impostor contract into a fist. He left with Pietro, yelling loudly for the It to be roused, to accompany him.

"I think it's possible you're misdirecting your anger." I looked at Victor. "This impostor is not a player—he's just one of the played.

"Watching all of this—it's as if this Doom and his family are distorted approximations of the real people—more someone's idea of who you are, than the real thing. And this someone's idea of who you should be—is Magneto's dogsbody. Victor—I think I know why you were left out of this change made to the world, why he is there in your place—because there are no circumstances under which you, even with altered memories, could be made into that travesty. Your sense of honor goes down to the bone."

"And so the one responsible made a puppet to stand in my place and be jerked about by Magneto. Yes. He keeps his imitation Doom on a very tight leash." observed Victor. "He even appointed his son as chief dog-handler."

"It is the House of M who should be our chiefest concern. What might you know of them that I do not? My impression of Pietro is that he is hot-headed, and has just about enough brains to move all of his muscles around—but no more than that." I commented.

"I cannot disagree with that assessment." said Victor. "His twin Wanda is the smarter of the two. I knew them when they were children, in fact. They were brought up as Rom, by the Maximoffs. I remember she was a pretty little girl, with a lot of fluffy red hair. He was a smart-mouthed, but dull brat.

"Magneto didn't learn they even existed until they were twenty—not as his children, at least. He made them part of his 'Brotherhood of Mutants' a few years before. His wife ran away from him before it showed that she was pregnant, and wound up at Mount Wundagore, where she gave birth to them."

" Wundagore—that's north of here. Why didn't she bring them up herself?" I asked.

"She left them in the keeping of the High Evolutionary's menagerie of artificially evolved animals, and went out into the tender embrace of a January night, during a blizzard, that apparently being preferable to Magneto's tender embrace. She was afraid of him, so she abandoned her children lest he trace her and claim them."

"So she went out into the storm to die."

"Yes."

"Does that not strike you as being eye-rollingly melodramatic on her part, not to mention a cop-out? I mean, to give birth, leave your twin babies in the care of animals that could have been fabricated by Doctor Moreau, and immediately leave them to go out and perish in a snowstorm. That's not high tragedy—that's the stuff of a bad soap opera. What sort of a woman would really do that?"

"I cannot say I have ever thought of the story in quite those terms. She was a fellow Holocaust survivor, and had been married to him long enough to have a four year old daughter before that. She died—he is said to have gone berserk and killed a number of people with his powers. His wife fled. She wound up in Wundagore. I know no more of her than that." Victor told me.

"Was her body ever discovered?"

"I don't believe so, no."

"Then what is to say she didn't escape somehow, remarry, however bigamously, and is not now living in Fort Lauderdale as the widow of a dentist from Massachusetts?" I said it facetiously.

Victor laughed. "Nothing whatever—but that seems an unlikely scenario."

"It would run directly counter to every Law of Heroics." I said. "Ah—wait a moment. Something doesn't add up."

As ever..TBC.


	49. Chapter 49

"What is it that you cannot reconcile?" asked Victor.

"Dates and facts." I looked at him. "When you spoke of Wanda and Pietro, you said you knew them 'when they were children' not 'when we were children'--so you must be older than they are, to make that distinction."

"Yes. I was a teenager when the Maximoffs first brought their twins, who were then about three—to the clan gatherings. I am ten, perhaps eleven years their elder."

"Since you are thirty-seven, that means they are twenty-six-or-seven. The German forces in World War Two surrendered on May 7th, 1945. You said Mrs. Magneto was a fellow Holocaust survivor—do you mean, as most people do, that they were survivors of a concentration camp?"

"They were survivors of Auschwitz. That was where they met." he said.

"I remember reading or hearing somewhere that Mrs. Magneto was an ordinary human. She could not have been that young. They killed the young children. They only kept those who were old enough to be useful…The onset of menstruation, the beginning of a woman's fertility, began later back then—and poor nutrition and stress could have retarded it. But say she began at fifteen. The window of opportunity only stays open so long. After thirty-five, a woman's fertility begins to decrease dramatically—and by forty-five most women are infertile." I was pacing around the patch of open floor in the command center, thinking out loud. I went on:

"Even then—if a woman can get pregnant, it's only with a lot of care, sophisticated medical care, good nutrition, not having to work long hours, at home or outside it, that she can hope for a happy outcome, and not a miscarriage, or a Down's syndrome baby. Twenty-eight years ago, when she would have had to be pregnant, all of this area was behind the Iron Curtain—Malnutrition, poor medical care, and poverty were the order of the day. Add to that—she was on the run from her husband, and had been for months..."

"I see what you are getting at. They are too young. The known dates and the facts cannot be made to coincide. The likelihood of a woman of her age being delivered of healthy twins at her second live birth strains credulity beyond belief. You are grinning from ear to ear, my dear. To what do you ascribe this discrepancy?"

"Sloppiness!" I said. "Oh, there may be some simple explanation, but I would be willing to be it would turn out to be retroactive—somebody went back and patched the hole. They miss things. They drop a stitch every now and then."

"I am afraid you are becoming a trifle too abstruse for me to follow you. Who are 'they' and how have 'they' been sloppy?"

"I don't exactly know," I lied, or at any rate exaggerated. "But someone or something has been playing with both time and reality for the last forty-five years, at the very least—and on a scale that makes this latest 'end of the world as we know it' look like the work of a rank and clumsy amateur. That—and more—is what I have proof of in my grandmother's attic."

"How?" Victor asked.

"I don't know how."

"Why?" he fired back.

"I can only guess. But before you ask any other questions— do you recall what happened to Jean Grey, how she 'died'?"

"Yes. The X-men were on a borrowed space shuttle. They encountered a radiation storm, she piloted the ship while the others stayed in the shielded compartment, and the Phoenix force found her as she was dying. The Phoenix force assumed her form and identity, and returned to Earth in her stead, leaving Jean Grey in a restorative cocoon-like structure. Consequently, the Phoenix, being too powerful, became unstable, and allowed itself to be destroyed. Everyone, including the Phoenix itself, believed it to be Jean Grey, and she was reported dead. Subsequently, the cocoon returned to Earth, and Jean Grey stepped out of it, returned to life and health."

"Yes, it's the classic mythopoetic story structure. The cycle is not complete until the sacrificed hero-god returns. Now the important question: when did this happen?" I fixed him with my eyes.

"The Phoenix died about three years ago—Jean Grey returned a year ago."

"I have a copy of her obituary, printed shortly after the time of the Phoenix's death, when Jean Grey's memorial service was held."

"How is that significant?"

"It reports that she was born in 1956—and died in 1980. Nor was it the obituary of some woman with the same name. All the other details of her life were identical. I found it over three years ago—in a box of china that had been wrapped in newspapers before being packed for storage. I checked that newspaper's archives for 1980—and found nothing in the record. I looked at the exact same page that ran in 1980—every other detail on that page was the same in every way, but for the missing obituary. Instead, I found the obituary in a much newer paper."

"One that had just been printed? You said you were looking over three years before—around the true date of the Phoenix's death."

"Yes and no. I found it in a paper that was three years old then. I saved a print-out. A year and a half later, I checked again. The date of her death had changed again. It was still three years ago. Again, I printed it out and saved it. Now you remember it as having been three years ago. Ten years from now, perhaps the Phoenix's death will still have been three years ago. It isn't any use taking a time machine and going ahead ten years to find out—because what ever it is that changes reality doesn't work like that. The obituary would say she had died thirteen years ago. The changes don't extend that far ahead. You have to live through the years for the past to change, to keep up with the present.

"In one of the sequels Frank L. Baum wrote to the Wizard of Oz, there's a deadly desert that can only be crossed by a magic carpet, that rolls itself out ahead of you, and rolls itself up behind you—infinitely extensible—but the amount of carpet stays the same. The size of the roll ahead of you never gets any smaller, and the one behind never gets larger, no matter how far you walk, and there is always plenty of room for everyone to walk on it, whether it is one person, or an entire army. Someone or something is doing that to time."

"You have proof." He said. "It is vital that I see this for myself. I do not doubt you are sincere, but... Where did you gain access to a time machine?"

Oh, dear. I had gotten a little too carried away. "You do have one in the cellar in Castle Doom—in our reality, that is."

"I do not recall giving you permission to use it, nor instructing you on how to operate it. Nor did I leave an owner's manual sitting around. It is of my own devising, and no such manual exists." He was angry.

"I did not ask your specific permission to use it, but you did, when I first entered your service, extend to me a blanket order to 'research what you will and as you will' to come up with other insights." I said.

"That permission did not cover the use of potentially deadly equipment, and you knew that—even if I did not say, 'Do not attempt to operate my time machine.' What were you thinking?" He was furious.

I couldn't go caving when he glared at me. "I was thinking that it is always easier to get forgiveness than it is to get permission. My theories sounded—and still sound—mad. I did not think I could explain them to you in a way that you would believe—not then. Do you believe me now? Or are you thinking this could be the onset of schizophrenia?

"Do not change the subject. How did you learn to set and operate my time machine?" Victor demanded.

"You left excellent notes. I studied them. You didn't keep them a secret, you know. You encouraged your scientists to try to understand them."

"That was more because I hoped—rather than believed—that one among them might comprehend them. I did not know anyone had succeeded." He still sounded mad.

"I still don't understand all of them—not quite." I said. "But I understood enough—and I needed to add to my proofs. It was wrong of me. I knew it was wrong—but I judged my need for knowledge to be greater than any other consideration. Have you yourself not done the same? I ask that you forgive me. I will never use it without your permission again."

"I forgive you." he said, after a long moment. "I have done…something of that kind. In return, I ask that you give your word that you will never use it—or any other equipment, machinery, developments, inventions or devices of my design—on which you have not been fully rated."

"I am not sure that I can, in good faith, make that promise. In an emergency I might have to break it."

"An emergency as defined by a threat to your life, mine, or someone dependant on us, I can allow for. Mere scientific or philosophical curiosity are not states of emergency." He stated, firmly.

"All right. Would you promise, in return, to train me in the use of anything I might conceivably need to operate?"

He thought about it for another moment. "Yes. With provisos to fit the circumstances and the equipment."

"Understood. I give my word."

"Thank you. Now. Although your theories are intriguing, they bear little on the problem at hand. I was about to point out that the aura of that creature's mother belongs to nothing human…"

TBC…


	50. Chapter 50

"Now," said Victor. "This is the normal view…" The screen showed Cynthia dozing peacefully in her chair. He tapped a few keys. "Infrared is useless, given her proximity to the fire." A few more keys, and the screen showed her as normal once again. "Her morphogenetic field is identical to her physical form—why do you smile?"

"I can't help it. I'm married to a man who not only knows what a morphogenetic field is, he has a scanner that can detect it."

"I invented the scanner that can detect it." He corrected me. "I must acknowledge that knowing you to be capable of understanding such concepts contributes greatly to my belief that we will, as you put it earlier 'work out in the long run.' There are a surprising number of entities about that can shapeshift. It was for that purpose that I devised the scanner. Returning to the matter of her aura—observe." He tapped a few more keys.

I looked at what the screen showed. "Ah—surely an aura is not supposed to be as active as that."

"It is not. There are several energies in conflict within her." Victor said.

"I had been wondering, earlier, if this version of Cynthia might have sold her soul—but not died."

"Perhaps that is what happened." Victor commented. "She urges him to pursue courses of action that are at best unwise. There is no possible way in which this wretched impostor can hope to defeat Magneto—any more than the dog which savages its master can hope to become the owner and master thereby."

"I think the results of her influence are all around us. The condition of Doomstadt—this hideous family—I had wondered how you would react to this Cynthia. You seem quite detached." I observed.

"I am detached. That is not my mother. My mother has been dead for over thirty years, and her soul at peace in heaven these past five. This is of intellectual interest, nothing more. We must identify our foe, and focus upon that goal. There are not many entities which are capable of such widespread alterations of reality, and fewer still who are mutants. I have spells—."

"Victor?" I interrupted.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Have you eaten anything since the change?"

"No." he stated. "My mind has been elsewhere."

"Aren't you hungry? I had no appetite earlier, but now I'm ravenous."

"What do you propose to do about it?" he asked.

"Raid the kitchens." I suggested. "And where were you planning on sleeping tonight?"

"I was not planning on sleeping tonight."

"That's up to you, but I think tomorrow will be very eventful. I will be astounded if Cynthia doesn't have me brought in so she can inspect me. Any woman in the world would want to have a look at the proposed mother of her grandchild. I anticipate an encounter with the impostor as well. I want to be well-rested for that. Will you not eat at least a little something with me?"

"I cannot refuse such a charming invitation. Very well—let us forage."

We returned to my room with bread, cheese, and fruit tied up in a clean kitchen towel.

"Will you take the chair, or the bed?" I asked him. "There's nowhere else to sit but the floor. On the other hand, if we both sit on the floor, there won't be any crumbs in the bed."

"The floor it is then," he agreed, and we laid out a midnight picnic on the floor of my old room, the enchanted privacy-insurance rose as our centerpiece in a glass of water.

"Did you enjoy your outing with Boris, before the world changed all around you?" Victor asked, as he sliced the cheese.

"Very much." I replied, accepting some of the slices.

"And his wedding gift to you?"

"Gift? Unless you mean it in a metaphoric sense, he didn't say anything about a gift."

"No—he said he had something he meant to give you. What, I do not know. It is likely he had not got around to it." Victor took a chunk of bread and ate.

"He told me a lot about your early years—I liked hearing about how you kept him at his wits' end, playing pranks with violins and spending your money on books." I smiled.

"I was a trial to him at times." Victor reminisced. "It made no impression on me at the time, but there were many nights he took very little dinner, in order that I might have my fill."

"And now you take care of him." I said, and bit into a nectarine.

"Yes."

"Do you do it merely as good policy, to show your people what rewards loyalty to you will earn? Or do you do it out of pride?" I raised an eyebrow at him, and sucked some juice off the heel of my thumb.

"Neither. I have a great deal of affection for Boris. I owe him far more than can ever be repaid—more than a comfortable old age or a few square kilometers of land and the best horses in the world, to be sure."

I nodded. "I thought you would say as much. I know of something that would go a long way toward making up for a thousand nights spent with a growling belly, for every time he shook his head and wondered what he was going to do about that boy. There is something he wants, something he never even hinted to you. I might be the only person he's ever told about it."

"What might that be?" Victor asked. "My treasury is open to him; he should know that he need only ask."

"He does know it. He told me so." I put down my nectarine pit, and drank some water. "This is something tremendous, however. It might strain even your generosity."

"If it is in my power to get it for him, he shall have it, whatever it may be." Victor took a slice of cheese.

"It does lie within your power—yours, and no one else's"

"Then tell me. I would know what this is."

"What Boris wants, more than anything else in the world—is that every now and then, you should call him 'Father'." I waited to see what his reaction would be.


	51. Chapter 51

I was surprised by his response.

"No." He said it coldly, definite and final. "Werner Von Doom was my father. No other shall have that honor from my lips. If there were any who might—then Boris should be he, but for a certain reason I determined never to call him so. I have forgiven him for it—but I shall never forget it."

"Oh," I said, dumfounded for a moment. "May I ask what it was?"

"I would prefer not to speak of it. My reason is sufficient. That is why he remains my servant, although thirty years and more have passed since that…occurrence." The ice in his voice told me it was time for a change of subject, but I was not about to abandon Boris or whatever reason Victor had for not making an old man truly happy. I would get back to it, and find out what it was— later.

"I understand. It's something only you can judge." I took some grapes. "By the way, are we going to have a honeymoon?"

"Yes. I have arranged to have a week free. I would that it were longer, but there are matters which will require my personal attention, or yours."

"A whole week." I smiled. "That sounds lovely. In all truth, it feels like we're already honeymooning—and I'm not just talking about the sex."

"What—even though we must sit on the floor and dine on bread and water, forced into hiding in our own home?"

"You're leaving out this excellent cheese and delicious fruit. This is hardly a hardship. I'm going to remember this night for the rest of my life," I said, looking around the room, "much more than I will any number of ordinary dinners. Besides-you're here—we're alive and well and together. Nothing can be too wrong when that is the case. All the rest—is just a minor inconvenience."

He was silent for a long moment. "You have an extraordinary capacity for happiness, my dear, and a unique ability to include others within it—for which I am grateful, since I am nearest to you. From where do you come by this?"

I laughed. "I don't know. From the right brain chemistry—serotonin and endorphins. Or, if I were to be fanciful—perhaps my mother did kill me. Perhaps I am dead, and this is heaven—my heaven. I've always thought the conventional idea of Heaven—harps, halos and hosannas for all Eternity—would be intolerably boring. So uneventful."

"You said something similar to me once before." Victor commented, tilting his head slightly to regard me with particular interest.

"I did? I don't recall it."

"When you were dead." he said.

"That again!" I teased, and started gathering up the remnants of our picnic. Nothing was left but the rind from the cheese, a few fruit pits and stems, and the centerpiece rose. "Just to show you, I won't ask what I said. Where are we going on our honeymoon, anyway?"

"To—an undisclosed location. I want to surprise you. However, I believe you will like it. After all, " he said, wryly, "you will be with me."

"So I will." I gave him my best enigmatic Mona Lisa smile, and stood up.

He stood up, too. "Will you lie down and rest for a while, before you start in on your spellcasting?" I asked. If I could get him to lie down, even money said he would fall asleep, and no matter what he said or believed, he needed sleep.

"For a while." he agreed. "Not long."

Once we were laying down, he said, "Tomorrow, once I have learned the identity of the one who is responsible for this, we will take back your ring and annihilate these impostors on our way out. Then we shall proceed to the location where that one is, and, for formality's sake, politely request that they put the world back the way it was. When that fails, as it certainly will, we will put the matter to them more forcefully. What will you do in the meantime?"

"I will have to be somewhere that I can be found, so that Cynthia can check my teeth and my hips. Beyond that—do you recall how the Trojan war started?"

"Eris threw an apple among the gods when they sat feasting. It was marked, 'For the fairest', and it was the apple of discord. The goddesses fought among themselves for it, until they referred the matter to an independent judge—Paris. They offered him bribes; he chose Aphrodite's offer of Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world. He took her home to Troy, and her husband and his brother came with their friends to fetch her back."

"Tomorrow you can call me Eris. I mean to cast some discord among these self-satisfied monsters. The impostor is going to face the fact that his happy little family is like a shiny red apple that's rotting on the inside." I also meant to make the impostor Doom give me back my ring, without threatening him, offering, implying or granting him any sexual favors. No, he was going to think he did it of his own free will—but telling Victor that seemed—indiscreet. He might start wondering whether I manipulated him, and that would never do…

"And there lies one fundamental difference between you and Valeria—the real Valeria." Victor said, pensively. "One of many, but perhaps the most significant."

"Mmm?" I asked.

Evidently he wanted to talk about her, right then. "She and I fought before I left for America. She accused me of caring more for books than I did for her—I said, in return, that books were a ladder to climb out of poverty, out of obscurity, out of being powerless and despised. What could she do for me that was as important as that? I told her I needed no one, I had no tender or softer feeling in me—and I knew I lied even as I said the words, but I did not take them back. I was—I was very young."

"You were sixteen, weren't you?" I asked.

"Yes. I did not see her again until many years later—until after my face was destroyed. I did not trouble her, because I did not believe she would want to see me—and I was not sure if I wanted to see her. She had made it clear she did not want to lead the life I was destined to live—and she would have been ill-suited to it.

"I dragged myself up and out of the ignorance and squalor, I educated myself in every aspect of etiquette and culture and taste, even as I had taught myself science and mathematics and magic, so that no one should look down their noses and call me a filthy gypsy ever again. It was not easy. By all the gods that ever were, it was not easy."

"I was the first in my family to go to college, let alone graduate. I come from eaters of government-provided cheese and white bread. 'Poor white trash' is the phrase that applies to my kind. I don't pretend it was anything as bad as what you went through, but I know the struggle you speak of." I said, remembering.

He put an arm about my waist, gave me a brief fierce squeeze. "Valeria never learned to read with any fluency, Joviana. I offered and tried to teach her, but she would have none of it. Yet still—. She lived among our people, until one day Diablo, the alchemist, learned of her. He sought to use her as a tool to coerce me to do his bidding. He wanted to be the ruler of the world…

"He told me to take my time machine and gather up the treasures of the ages. He held her hostage—what could I do but seem to agree, and bide my time? It was child's play to defeat him. I altered the area affected by the time field, so it would send the one who worked the controls, and not those who stood on the platform. When he thought to send me back in time—it was he who went hurtling through the centuries—not backward, but forward, to a time when the Earth shall be no more than a burned-out husk, and he, the last human on it. Thus he became the ruler of the world—even as I had promised him."

"Clever move!" I said, admiringly. "He must have been disgruntled when he got there!"

"I thought it was a pity I could not see it myself." Victor said, dryly. "Once he was gone, the spell on Valeria dissipated. I turned to her, I thought—I had just rescued her. I was not what I had been, I was no longer handsome, but I hoped she would look beyond that. She seemed to be my last, my only chance at—companionship. I did not then imagine that I might form another attachment, that I might meet with someone who could care for me, and not for money, position, or power. In short, I had not met you."

I squeezed his arm that time. "For once I don't have the words to answer you." I said.

"No words are needed. You have said them all, and said other things without any words…Valeria said she had heard me gloating over Diablo's fate—and upbraided me with cruelty. She told me not to touch her—she could not bear for me to touch her. She asked me if I would renounce my ambitions for her sake, if I would go back to the life she still led.

"I could make no answer. All I saw was an endless empty life before me—alone, as I had always been alone, as I always would be alone. No grace of a woman's laugh, no scent of her desire, no human warmth… She left, saying we would never meet again. And we have not."

I turned, and wound my arms around him, held him as tightly as I could. I was choked up. "What a stupid heartless bitch she was, then."

He laughed, not a happy one, but one that seemed to free him, for he replied, "Thus you exorcise the crushing darkness that had nearly smothered my soul. The pain of thousands of nights spent reproaching myself, put into perspective with a single statement. 'What a stupid heartless bitch she was, then.' Perhaps she and her impostor are not so different, after all."

* * *

A/N: Okay, I'm fed up with Marvel. No sooner do I finish this chapter, which I thought explained Victor's relationship with Valeria nicely, based on the only source material,a story from 1969, but they put out Books of Doom # 3, which contradicts both the original story and my fic in several ways. Phooey! Ignore that comic book! 


	52. Chapter 52

A/N: Everybody has an Uncle Lenny Mckenna in their family. Unfortunately.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I faked the sudden jerk that happens when your involuntary nervous system doesn't quite take control of your body properly when you're falling asleep, like a gear slipping. 

"Victor," I asked, anxiety in my voice. "Boris didn't—he didn't abuse you, or molest you in some way, did he?" I was sure he had not. Boris would never have done such a thing. Asking that was a tactic.

"What?" he asked, incredulously. "No! He was far too good and honorable a man to mistreat anyone—especially not in that way. And if he had, I would not have forgiven him—I would have come back and killed him. No, that was not the reason."

I said, 'That's good." but I did not relax.

"What's wrong?" Victor asked after a moment. "You are tensed up, I can feel it."

"Now my imagination has got hold of it. I can't stop wondering what it was that Boris did." I told him.

"Nothing so terrible as that, I assure you."

I still didn't relax.

He made an exasperated noise. "You're not going to sleep for wondering, are you?"

"Probably not. I have a very active and original imagination." I said.

"I know that." He sighed. "As my father and I stood over my mother's grave, Boris came, along with several other Rom men, and told my father they thought it would be best if we traveled elsewhere, at least for a while, lest the anger of those whose families she had killed should come to rest on the tribe in revenge. Boris came and told us that, before the dirt of her grave was even washed from my father's hands…I could not understand at first. Were they not our friends, our family? Did they not love us even as I loved them? They wanted to cast us out.

"That was the end of my childhood—there, at that moment. I could never fully trust them again. Never."

"But they didn't make you leave, did they?" I asked. Boris had said nothing about that.

"Only because I prevented them."

"Weren't you only four or so? How could you have done that?" were my next questions.

"I told them that if they threw us out, I would grow up to be just like my mother, only worse, and that I would come back and make them pay for it." He said, sardonically.

"Oh…" It should have been funny, the image of a four-year-old Victor looking up at a group of grown men and telling them he would have revenge on them. It should have made them laugh. It should have made me laugh. If it had been anyone else, maybe--but even the strength of will and determination must have showed in him.

"That reminds me of my uncle Lenny. "I said. Saying 'And that's why you won't call him father?' would get me nowhere. "He put an end to my belief that all the people I loved, loved each other as well. Uncle Lenny was a natural born comedian. You have to understand that in our area, it wasn't until the eighties that anyone Asian, Hispanic or black moved in. What with the economy being so bad there, anyone new was regarded as taking the food out of somebody else's mouth, as well as all the other prejudices. There were a few hate crimes—but there were a lot more jokes and comments about them.

"My uncle Lenny would do this whole routine at family dinners—once Mom was married and allowed back into the family circle, we went to eat at Grandmother and Grandfather Mckenna's at least once a month—and he would have the whole family practically wetting themselves laughing, when he started doing imitations of the different stereotypes. I laughed too—I was only, oh, eight years old, and you pick up things from your family—until one night, he started doing an imitation of my other grandmother.

"English wasn't even her second language—it was her fourth or fifth. She knew Hungarian, Russian, Romanian and German as well as Latverian, just from living in Latveria, as people will. She didn't learn English until my grandfather brought her back after World War Two as a war bride. She got by in it—but she had a strong accent. She also had mild osteoporosis, and she usually wore a shawl over her head and shoulders, a babushka. She looked funny and sounded funny—and I realized immediately exactly who Uncle Lenny was caricaturing. It was cruel. It wasn't just him, either, because the rest of my mother's family were falling down laughing, and making other comments about her. Even my mother. I started crying, and my mother had to take me home early.

"I think that's what saved me from becoming a racist, because I never trusted what anyone said about a person or an ethnic group after that. I never laughed at anything Uncle Lenny said after that either." I remembered something else about my uncle—and realized that it was the perfect thing to say, to get Victor to reconsider his decision never to call Boris 'Father'.

"It wasn't until years later that I realized that Uncle Lenny was gay. At first I wondered—why should somebody who lived in the glass house of homosexuality, so to speak, throw stones at other despised and laughed at groups? Then I realized it was a survival tactic. He did it because he was afraid. He made fun of others—because when he did, nobody was making fun of him."

I did not add, 'Maybe Boris came to ask your father to leave because he was being pressured into it. Maybe Boris was afraid if he stood by you, he would be thrown out, too—and he wasn't as young as your father. He had a wife and a granddaughter to think of, too.' Victor could ask himself that inside his head. I had done what I could.

"In a way, it's rather a shame I couldn't take you home to meet all the Mckennas as my husband. They would be overawed—after all, a wealthy doctor, that's quite a catch! But then when they asked about your background and your people, you could tell them you were descended from aristocrats and kings on your father's side, and your mother was a pure-blooded Romani—except they probably wouldn't know what a Rom was, so you'd have to explain that meant she was a gypsy. They'd check their wallets and count the spoons after you left to make sure you hadn't stolen anything." I said.

"You say that with all the contempt it deserves. Yet somehow they managed to produce you—the only accomplishment of any worth. I marvel at it."

"Well, they mostly did it by being a prime example of what not to be like. That was a terrible thing they did, and an even worse time they chose to do it. I'm sorry they wanted to get rid of you—and I'm sorrier that they made Boris do it."

"As am I, even now. Will you be able to sleep now?" he asked. "I will stay for at least a few more minutes."

"I think so. Good night, Victor." I relaxed. Before I fell asleep, he started to snore very slightly. I allowed myself a small smile of triumph, and shortly after that, I joined him.

* * *

A/N: Gonna sneak in some naughty stuff next chapter! 


	53. Chapter 53

A/N: To see a version of the painting this chapter refers to, check out my profile. I have put it up there.

* * *

"Good." said the impostor Doom. "Come here." He had summoned me to the castle's art gallery, and now beckoned me to look at a particular painting. "I had been wondering why you seemed familiar to me somehow, when I knew I had never seen or met you, and this is the answer. You remind me of her." 

I knew the painting. I ought to know it; it hung over the bedroom safe in my suite back in our reality. The painting showed a young woman with a storm-cloud of dark hair wearing a dress of pale blue-green. I had thought the painting had been chosen because her dress matched the silk damask wall-coverings, but perhaps I reminded the real Victor of her, too.

The only item in the picture that identified her was the pomegranate in her hand. She was Proserpine, or Persephone, to give her Roman name, the goddess of Spring—the daughter of Demeter, goddess of grain and fertility. One day she was abducted—and married—by Hades, the darkly forbidding lord of Hell. Her mother grieved, and stopped every food crop from growing, bringing perpetual winter to the earth while she hunted for her daughter.

Eventually the other gods staged an intervention, and told Hades he had to send her back home. He agreed, but before he let the girl go, he offered her a pomegranate. She ate a few of its seeds, and for each seed she ate, she had to return for one month out of the year.

Rosetti had made it quite clear that the forbidden fruit she ate of was purely metaphoric. The cut in the skin of the pomegranate which revealed the glistening red juicy interior, was distinctly vulva-shaped. She was going to have to return to Hades because she had sex with him.

That set my mind straying to…other things. Such as how Victor had woken me up that morning…

I had thought I was having an extremely erotic dream—and woke to find out I wasn't dreaming.

I felt cool air stirring on my naked upper body. My lower half, though equally naked, was quite warm. Victor was making sure of that. The first two fingers of one hand were smoothly and rhythmically stroking me, the other hand was holding my folds apart, and his tongue…

Was flicking back and forth on the most sensitive part of me as lightly and carefully as if he were doing his best to pet a butterfly's delicate wings without damaging them.

I only gasped once, and then I had to be absolutely silent, because it just felt so wonderful. Fingers bringing me to orgasm were nothing new. I mean _I_ had fingers, and that was how I had survived without going insane with frustration. Victor's fingers were better, true, but what he was doing with his tongue—.

It felt so good I almost didn't want to come…

"Are you feeling all right?" asked the impostor. "You look somewhat…feverish."

"What?" I asked, startled out of a much happier place. "No—I'm fine. I felt a little dizzy for a moment, that's all."

"Do you need to sit down?" he asked, concerned. "I have not forgotten what you said yesterday. Your possible condition…Forgive me, but have you been tested yet?"

"No, but it is rather soon. It would be best to wait a few more weeks, to be more certain of an accurate result." I drew his attention back to the painting. "Dante Gabriel Rosetti" I identified the artist. "Proserpine—but it's really a portrait of Jane Morris."

"You know your Pre-Raphaelites." commented the impostor. "You and she are not exactly alike in terms of features—but the hair is the same, the eyebrows, something about the nose—Your forehead is higher, your lips less full, your eyes a different color—but you and she could be sisters."

"Do you consider her beautiful?" I asked.

"Very. Or else I would not own her."

"You don't own her. You're just looking after her for the future." I said. "Art belongs to Time, not to people."

"I beg to differ." He said. "I own three Renoirs—I once owned four, but I ordered one burned."

"Really?" I asked. Victor actually had done that, before I entered his service. It was one of the most deplorable things he had ever done, in my opinion. "Why?"

"Because it displeased me." he said.

"I'm glad I'm not married to you, then. If you would do that to a painting for which you must have paid thousands, if not millions, what would you do to a wife? Was it from his impressionistic days, or that later, candy-box-pearly-pretty period?" I asked.

"It was a syrupy interior of two girl-children at a piano."

"Well, I don't blame you for being displeased with it, then. But could you not have donated it or sold it rather than had it burned?"

"I could have—but it gave me a feeling of satisfaction to have it burned." He caught sight of himself in a mirror and did that preening thing again.

"You know the famous English Regency style-setter Beau Brummell—who I consider one of history's great humanitarians because he advocated frequent bathing for both sexes, and that men should wear clean shirts and underwear every single day—used to spend several hours every day in front of a mirror, before he would even leave his rooms. He made sure that every hair was in place, every fold in his cravat was just right, that his jackets had not one wrinkle or speck of lint on them. Once he left his rooms, however, he never even glanced in a mirror or any other reflective surface. It just wasn't done."

"Why do you say this to me?" he asked.

"Because in the short time that I've known you, twice I've seen you look at yourself in the mirror and do that something which greatly reduces your attractions. You are a very good-looking man, but you ought not to make it obvious that you know it." I knew I was safe in saying this to him, because this man was thinking about making a baby with me. Besides, I had just said he was very good-looking. He liked that.

"Was that a reproof?" he asked.

"You must take it in whatever sense you will." I replied.

"Your fiancé—what sort of man is he?" the impostor Doom asked next.

"I'm not sure if I can answer you. To me he stands so tall above all other men that his shadow blots them all out—but then I love him. Someone else might say he was a man like any other." I smiled, but not at him.

"How tall is he, in a purely physical sense?"

"About your height, or perhaps a little taller." I looked him up and down and frowned slightly.

"How old is he?" asked the impostor.

"Thirty-seven." I answered.

"That is my age also."

"Is it?" I asked, unconcerned.

"Is he good-looking?—as handsome as I a—as handsome as you find me?" he pressed.

"Nice catch there." I said. "I think I've already established that my judgment is not to be trusted where he is concerned. I know my heart and spirits lift whenever I see him."

"What is his name?"

"There you have the one thing I cannot tell you about him. He would forgive my giving away the ring he gave me, but he would never forgive me for putting myself in danger on his account." I replied.

"Would you be in danger if you were to tell me his name?"

"I might. But come, my lord. You must have summoned me here to some purpose, and not just to exchange pleasantries."

"As it so happens I have. You are a calligrapher, and I understand that you gave an impromptu demonstration of your skills yesterday, down in Doomstadt."

"I did, while I was buying supplies." I had known I was going to be followed.

"I might have a commission for you. My mother knows many old songs and folktales of our country—I would like to see them written down. I want you to work with her to create a hand-made book of her stories, one where they are illustrated and illuminated like a medieval Book of Hours."

"Something along the lines of The Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, you mean?"

I countered.

"Yes. I would like you to meet my mother first, for without her approval, the project will go nowhere."

"As you would have it, my lord." I said in reply, blandly. I knew this was going to happen…


	54. Chapter 54

I returned to my room, got my portfolio of calligraphy samples, and rejoined the impostor Doom. As we went down the halls of the castle to his mother's suite, I asked him if there were any particular stories of hers which he remembered from childhood. He responded with the tale of Koshchei the Deathless, a Russian fairytale with a warrior princess as its heroine. I had always liked it myself.

When we reached her room, however, her attendants and several of the castle's medical personnel turned anxious faces toward us. "My lord—thank God you're here! Your lady mother—she seems to have had a stroke."

"What? Mother!" The impostor rushed to her side, and was engulfed in the crowd.

I knew better. What had happened to Cynthia Von Doom was not a stroke, but an exorcism. Victor had started spell-casting and done it by way of a warm-up, as he told me he would.

I was forgotten in the moment of crisis. As I had nothing better to do, I sat down on a mauve satin bench in the hall and sorted through my examples. Sooner or later, trouble would find me. All I had to do was wait.

It didn't take that long. Before long, Kristoff sauntered down the hall and stopped. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Your honored father was thinking of commissioning me to do some work for your grandmother, but she seems to have suffered a stroke. He hadn't dismissed me, so rather than disappear rudely, I thought I would wait for a while."

"Oh, yeah. They said she was sick. So that's the stuff you do?" He squinted at my pages, leaned over, and picked one up. "What's this? I can't even read it."

"It's a Hungarian cradle song, the one that goes

'The spring wind blows the waters, my flower,  
every bird searches for a partner, my flower,  
And I, whom should I choose, my flower,  
I choose you and you choose me, my flower.'"

"That one." he said, dismissively. "Is this kind of writing really hard to do?"

"Not for me." I replied.

"Really? That's nice. Want to see me do some magic?" Before I could reply, he flash-flamed his hand, and the page with the flower song was a flake of ash. He smirked. "Now you see it, now you don't." He waited for my reaction.

I had noticed something: the little red light on the monitor box for the nozzles by the ceiling which sprayed the flame-retardant foam had blipped on for a moment when he did that. The system was active.

Time for Discord to start this apple rolling…

"Dear me." I said, in pleasant conversational tones. "Let's book you a show in Vegas, shall we? Talent like that mustn't go to waste."

"Are you mocking me, or what?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Or what." I said. "Listen, you nasty little drip of snot, if you don't leave me alone, I'll tell your father about your stash of drugs. Then you'll regret it."

"What?" He gaped, foolishly. "How did you—? What did you just call me?"

"I called you a nasty little drip of snot. I might just as easily have called you a sexually degenerate little weasel, but that would be an insult to weasels everywhere. Where do you get off treating girls like they were disposable nose-wipes?"

"You can't talk to me like that!"

"You seem to have a very narrow idea of what I can say. My vocabulary is larger than you think. You are a vice-ridden glob of phlegm. I say it to your face. What are you going to do about it?"

He screeched in fury, his flames blooming around him as he drew back his arm to shoot a firebolt at me that would incinerate me like he had the paper…

And then the flame-retardant started to spray.

The nozzles targeted him, so I missed the worst of it. Some of it splattered on my skirt and my sandals, and, sadly, my portfolio.

The alarms cut in, too, so it was no surprise that the impostor burst out of his mother's sickroom to bellow in purest fury, "What the hell is going on out here? My mother may be dying in there! Is this your idea of respect?"

"It was her!" Kristoff leveled a dripping finger at me. "She insulted me! I had no choice!"

"My lord." I had immediately assumed a horror-stricken face, put an anguished throb in my voice—keeping it low and soft, of course. "That isn't how it was! I wasn't sure whether to stay or go, so I waited—and when Prince Kristoff came up to me, he—made a suggestion—."

"I did not! You lying bitch! Father, she's lying, I swear it!"

"He suggested that I come back to his room with him. Even if I wanted to take a fourteen year old boy for a lover, I don't want to end up in the burn ward. When I said no, he said he had some drugs, some 'prime shit', that he would share with me. When I said no again, he became abusive and obscene. When I said I would tell you, he—he—If it weren't for the fire-control system, he might have killed me." I was shaking as I said it. Anyone would have thought I was on the verge of breaking down.

"You liar! Father!" Kristoff appealed to him, but the false Doom was looking at me.

"Where did you hear about his lovers ending up in the burn ward?" he asked me, angry.

Of course that was the sort of thing he would want to cover up. "From your own lips. You said it yesterday, when I was no further away from you that I am now." I said, in perfect honesty.

"Ah." he said, momentarily nonplussed. "I did not realize you had heard that. And you! What is this about you having drugs?" he turned to Kristoff.

"Father, I don't! I swear! She's a liar, she's making it up!"

"Silence!" his father shouted at him.

"He said he had his stash hidden in his bedside table. He was afraid it had been ruined by the flame-retardant, but when he went back for it, it was fine. He made the servants leave the room before he retrieved it. He said so." I told him. "My lord, may I have your protection? I do not want to be burned to death."

"He shan't harm you." The impostor promised. "If you are telling the truth, that is. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Well, she's lying! She's a treacherous lying bitch! I don't know—." He spluttered to a halt when his father raised a hand.

"Guard! Have Prince Kristoff's new rooms searched—with a sniffer—for illegal substances. Look everywhere. Report back when you have either found something or are very certain there is nothing to find." Doom the fake uttered curtly.

"No!" Kristoff ordered. "I command you not to do it. I don't have to prove anything."

The guard looked from Kristoff to Doom, who looked at his adopted son with something less than paternal fondness. "Your orders are followed only because I lend you something of my authority. I now revoke that. If there are no drugs, than you have nothing to fear. If there are, however…." He let the sentence end there. "In the meantime, you—and you—." He indicated me. "will wait here. Guard!"

A different guard appeared. "See to it that both of them stay where they are. Kristoff, you are not to leave, nor to try to escape, nor to harm this lady in any way whatsoever. Do not even speak to her! I am going back in to my mother. If you disobey, it will go hard with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord." I said.

Kristoff's face twisted. "Yes, father."

We sat down to wait. Kristoff glared balefully at me, but that was all.

TBC…

* * *

A/N: I must thank Kilmarnockrea (sp?) of the Mcmahoniacs for the song lyrics in this chapter. She is Romanian by birth, where, if Latveria existed, it would be located. She very generously provided me with details to help make this fic even more real. 


	55. Chapter 55

Kristoff had obviously believed that he had hidden his stash so well that even an airborne molecular sampler, or 'sniffer' could not find it. He was wrong. As the first guard returned with a clear plastic evidence bag, the smaller bag of stash clearly visible inside it, Kristoff's jaw dropped comically, and I stifled my snort of laughter.

Kristoff sprang to his feet, and started down the hall, but the second guard unholstered his weapon and warned him, "Young sir, His Excellency's orders were clear. You are not to leave this area."

"I'm just going to—." the boy began.

"I have an impulse scrambler, young sir." The guard aimed it.

"But I have to—." Kristoff tried again.

"Please wait for the Master, young sir."

Kristoff sat back down, and glared at me again.

We waited while the first guard entered Cynthia's rooms.

I had a moment to reflect. After three years (and five days) of very carefully redirecting Victor's impulses into constructive, rather than destructive, action, manipulating one fourteen year old boy was ridiculously easy. Even manipulating the impostor Doom wasn't that hard, but I was using a different and new—new for me, anyway—technique. I was flirting with him.

I had never tried that on Victor, back before we were married—it never would have occurred to me. I would have thought him immune, for one thing, and for another, I was not confident enough in my attractions as a woman.

No doubt this substitute for Victor had women flirting with him all the time. With the face he had, they were probably chasing him into dark corners! But I was doing so on an intellectual level near or equal to his own (Perhaps even higher. The impostor wasn't as keen-edged of wit as my Victor.)

I knew he was thinking of dropping the 'artificial' part of his plan to artificially inseminate me with his child when he asked me if my fiancé was as handsome as he was.

The doors to Cynthia's suite flew open and banged against the walls when the impostor burst through them. "Cocaine!" he shouted, his face red and the cords of his neck standing out.

"Father, I can explain—," Kristoff tried, but the false Doom interrupted.

"Am I your father?" he asked, rhetorically. "Would a son not listen when his father spoke of the evils of such filth? Would a son lie to his father?"

I idly wondered what planet the impostor thought he was living on. It wasn't the same one as the rest of us, that was for sure.

"But I swear, it was her fault!" Kristoff pointed at me. "I don't know how, but—."

"Whose fingerprints were on the package?" the impostor asked the guard.

"Prince Kristoff's, sir. And in the drawer where they were concealed. No one else's."

"And still you lie." The pretender turned to the guard. "Have him give urine, hair, and fingernail samples to a lab technician. I want to know what else he's been up to. Then escort him back to his room and place him under house arrest. He is not allowed to leave it except at my orders—no one else's. Nor is anyone else to enter—except for his mother."

He turned back to Kristoff. "You will obey, or you will be in even greater trouble than you are now. Do I make myself clear?"

"Okay, okay! Yes, the coke is mine, but I swear, I never told her about it! How could she have known? I never asked her to come to my rooms with me, either! Please, Father, you've got to believe me! And she called me a vicious phlegm wad!"

"That is not entirely correct." I said. "I did call him a vice-ridden gob of phlegm. I was upset."

"I don't wonder." grumbled the impostor. "Nor is the description entirely inaccurate. Take him away." He waved at the guards.

"But, Father—!" wailed Kristoff.

"That will be quite enough out of you. Every word you say only puts me more out of temper with you. A more intelligent boy would know to be silent—but then, the fact that you possess and use cocaine is proof you are not a more intelligent boy."

Kristoff was marched off.

The impostor turned to me. "I am sorry you had to endure that. Please accept my apologies."

"They are accepted." I said, and added, "How is your mother? I am very sorry she was taken so ill. From how you spoke of her, I know she must be very dear to you."

"She is unconscious but stable." He rubbed his hand over his face. "Thank you for those kind words. The boy has been…overindulged. I shall correct that, see to it he learns better manners and better morals. I had thought to reprove him before this, but—as you heard yesterday— his mother wouldn't hear of it. She is—very fond of him."

"It is not my place to comment on that," I said, my eyes downcast.

"He is not our son by blood, but by adoption." he explained. "It is my great regret that we were not able to have children of our blood." Ah, he was laying groundwork for his proposal that I should help with that.

"And your lady wife's great regret as well?" I asked.

"Yes. I should have said, 'our regret'."

"I am sorry for that. My lord, may I be excused?' I asked.

"Why?" he asked.

"My skirt has flame-retardant foam on it. I want to change before I go down to Doomstadt to look for lodgings." I replied. "I cannot stay here."

"Why not?"

"I never meant to stay for very long. Your mother is too ill to begin the book you proposed, and is likely to be a long time recovering. When she is better, I would be honored to be considered once more, but as it is, I have no right nor reason to impose myself on your hospitality."

"You need not go." frowned the pretender.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but I feel I must." I responded.

"I do not wish that you should do so."

"What can it be to you where I live?" I asked, reasonably. "In any case, I have no real reason to be here."

"I here create you my court calligrapher." he stated firmly.

"I have made myself objectionable to a member of your family. I would rather not live here in his eye." I said, just as firmly. Avoiding his gaze, I turned and began gathering up my flame-retardant covered examples.

I didn't mean it, of course. It was part of my plan to spread discord. Perhaps the impostor Doom and his Valeria were better suited to each other than the real Victor was to his, but they had been married for eighteen years—since they were nineteen. He was still only a kid then, and surely he had wondered if he made the right decision. By nightfall, if I played him correctly, I would have him half-convinced that he had just fallen in love for the first time—with me.

When his hand came down on my shoulder, the little jump I made was genuine. I hadn't expected that. As I turned to face him, I heard Valeria's voice ask, "Just what is going on here?"

Whatever was about to happen, it was bound to be interesting….


	56. Chapter 56

I immediately decided not to attack Valeria directly. I would let her do that. Passive-aggressive would be my stance. It would make her look so bad, too...

The impostor Doom did not act guilty—he acted irritated. "What does it look like?" he asked in return, removing his hand from my shoulder and using it to wave at the flame-retardant mess that stained the carpet and walls. "Owing to your faulty policy of indulging the boy in everything, he has reached a point of degeneracy where, while my mother hovers on the brink of death, he makes lewd advances to a woman half again his age, and when thwarted, explodes in rage. Moreover, he has acquired a cocaine habit."

"I know he made no such advances; he just called me from the lab and told me all about it. You're treating him like a criminal—and on what grounds? Her word against his? She insulted him and lied to you! She knows more than she ought to know." Valeria cast a fulminating glance at me. I blinked, wide-eyed, and looked from one to the other.

"Her word against his? He lied to me! Or did this innocent woman break in and administer the cocaine to him, and then hide more in his room? No, that won't hold up. He finally admitted the drugs were his, and no doubt when he realizes there is no other course but to tell the truth, he will own up to the rest. Nor am I treating him as a criminal—if I were, he would have been taken out and shot by this time." growled the false Doom.

She was taken aback by the intensity of his anger. "But to lock him up in his room—and all over a few lines of coke!" Valeria gave a little laugh, trying to pass off Kristoff's offense as a minor matter. I almost winced for her—the pretender would have to be very dense indeed to miss what she had let slip. I wasn't going to have to do much here. The dominoes were in motion all ready.

He wasn't that dense. "All over a few lines of coke." He repeated, looking at her with dawning disgust in his eyes. "You say that with uncommon casualness, madam. Even, I should say, with familiarity. Cocaine addiction is a monstrous thing. I doubt there can be anyone in the modern world who does not know that. Those who try to pretend otherwise are those who have some reason. Why do you want to make light of it?"

"Because—it isn't as bad as you make out. He only does a little, now and then—he's not addicted, not really. He told me so." Valeria spread her hands.

"When?" His eyes were narrowed.

"When he called me." She answered.

"He must have said a lot in a very short time." He said, suspiciously.

"He was talking very fast."

"Valeria. I have known you my entire life, and have been married to you for half of it. You have no mood, humors, or mannerisms that I do not know—and you are acting now as you did when you stole your grandmother's wedding ring and pawned it for money to buy sweets. What are you concealing?"

"You are my husband, not my father, and you should not be speaking to me in that way."

"You are my wife, and not a child. Have you more knowledge of Kristoff's drug habits than you should? Or, to cut to the point, if I were to send my guard with a sniffer to your room, and have you give the same samples to the lab, what would I find?"

"You're accusing me of using cocaine? Your own wife?" She was getting very high and shrill-voiced. That wasn't good—at least not for her.

"I only wonder why you speak so casually of it." His words were lightly said, but very cold.

"Because—it's such a common thing, in our circles. You find it everywhere. Of course I don't—." She abandoned defending herself, and then turned to attack. "What I want to know is—why, when I came in, were you touching her? Why did you spend the better part of an hour talking to her, privately? What is going on?"

"My lady," I put in, "there was no part of that conversation which you could not have been present for. It was entirely innocent and harmless." Saying that fanned the flames…

"She is correct." The impostor confirmed. "We met, not in private, but in the art gallery, and discussed my collection. It was a pleasure to talk to a well-educated woman who thinks about something other than what bauble or garment she covets next—for a change."

She hauled off and slapped him, with both her hand and her powers. At the look on his face, she froze, and raised both hands to cover her mouth. "Oh, Victor, I—I'm—."

"The ring." He said, and held out his hand. "The emerald."

"What of it?" she asked.

"Give it to me. Now."

"Why?" she shrugged.

"Because I wish it." His tone of voice said he would brook no argument.

She drew it off, and handed it to him. Without turning or taking his eyes off his wife, he held it out in my direction. "Your ring, Madame. My wife thanks you for the loan of it."

She cried out, "You're giving it back to her? Why?"

"Because she asked after my mother's health, and expressed a decent human sympathy. Neither my wife nor my son had the courtesy to do as much."

Valeria drew in her breath with a little hiss.

I took the ring, looked at it and said faintly, my voice wavering a little, "There is blood—dried blood—in the crevices of the setting. It was not there when I gave it to her." It was true. My horror and surprise were not. I knew already where it had come from.

"More fascinating discoveries." said the pretender, sourly. "Well, wife? Where did the blood come from? It is not mine."

"I cut my finger." She supplied hastily.

"You have no scab nor mark on your hand." The pretender was scowling again. "Try again."

"I don't know." She said, blankly. "Or—it was my maid's. She was—brushing my hair, and pulled some of it out by the roots."

"How did she come to bleed on the ring?" her husband pressed.

"She bled on the ring because I reprimanded her! And it's no more than what you have done yourself dozens of times, so I can't see where you're getting so righteous all of a sudden." She flared up. "And as for you—." she turned to me, and made as if to strike me, but for some curious reason (connected to my careful maneuverings,) her foot came down in the middle of the flame-retardant mess, and she slipped and had to catch at the table to keep her balance.

"Bitch!" she spat at me, and stormed off down the hall, flinging back over her shoulder at us, "I'm going to my son!"


	57. Chapter 57

"One moment!" the impostor called after his wife.

She stopped. "Oh, what is it?" she asked petulantly.

"As I recall, it has been—ten years, perhaps, since you began wearing glamours to enhance your beauty." He told her, taking a couple of strides down the corridor toward her.

She looked worried. "I—I suppose so. What of it?"

"Nothing. I have nothing against it—except that at first it was only when we attended House of M functions—then it was at any public function. It occurs to me that it has been seven years or more since I have seen my wife's natural face."

"I don't think it can be that long." She tried to shrug it off.

"Yet I am sure of it." He was glaring down into her face now, her smooth untroubled face, unmarked by time or character. "I would like to see it."

"Of course you can. A-any time—but not right now. I must go to Kristoff, and make him—make him understand what he has done wrong." She was afraid.

"Singing a different tune now, madam? I will not be put off. Remove your glamours, or I shall rip the magics from you."

"But why?" she asked.

"I have a fancy to see the real face of the woman I have lived with for so long. More, I find I do not care for the illusion—it is too like talking to a mask."

My mouth twitched involuntarily at that. There was nothing he could tell me about dealing with a mask…

"Victor—I'm sorry. I beg that you will forgive me. Only—." Her hands fluttered back to her mouth.

"Only don't make you remove your glamour. Why not? Is your hair disordered, or have you a blemish on your nose? I will overlook it. Now, Valeria." His tone made it clear he would not tolerate any further delay.

"You want to see my face?" she shrieked. "Well, have a look!"

She dropped the spells that preserved her beauty.

She looked terrible.

A woman who is thirty-seven can be a knockout—much more beautiful than she was at seventeen or at twenty-seven. Rene Russo, at over fifty, is the model of what I want to age into—sexy, confident, well-groomed. But it takes work—staying healthy, exercising, eating right, living right.

Valeria's hair, which had been so lustrous, inky-dark and flowing, was grizzled with grey, clumpy, and lifeless. Deep lines were etched around her pinched, unhappy mouth, speaking of greed, anger, hardness. There were squint marks around her eyes, grooves in her brow. Her eyes, bloodshot and livid, had dark circles under them. Her gaze never moved off of him.

Worse of all, her nose was crumpled in on one side—the classic 'cocaine nose-job' of the habitual user.

"Well?" she asked, defiant.

"I see." said the pretender. "Tell me, Valeria—how many of my children died in your womb because you poisoned them?"

"None of them." she said. "Tell me now, Victor—why did you never have your sperm tested? Did you never wonder if it wasn't me—but you?"

This time, he slapped her. It wasn't a hard or brutal one—it was more to shock than anything else. "Go to your son." he told her, and turned away.

She restored that lying face before she went—well, she had her pride.

Once she was gone, he cleared his throat and said, "They are my nearest and dearest." He was silent a long moment.

Then, when I was about to say something, he went on. "They are not what I thought they were. But they are what I have. God help me…You asked me what it was to me where you lived. It is a great deal to me—because with my mother in a coma as she is, and even though I have not yet known you for twenty-four hours—if you go, you leave me alone with them."

I truly felt sorry for him, but only for the briefest moment. I thought of those girls who had ended up in the burn unit. I remembered the one who would never have children because of it.

"I'm sorry. I should not have been here for that. I must go." I finished gathering up the ruined writing samples.

"No!" he cried out, then recollected his dignity. "I am the one who should apologize. You should not have had to witness that. Do not go."

"I have to, now that I've made myself hated by your wife as well as your son. There is no way I can possibly stay here, not when she'll be jealous and suspicious— and when I have no legitimate pretext to stay on here."

"What about the money?" he asked, slyly.

"The money?" I asked, pretending to be more puzzled than I was. If he hadn't brought it up, I was going to.

"Yes. The money I advanced against your ring. You have your ring back—what of the five thousand?'

"I have over four thousand of it left—but that's unfair. You can't mean to say you'd keep me here because of that—?"

"I am a desperate man." he said, ironically, but without any lightness of heart. "You can keep the money—but call it a down payment on your commission. Start the book. For my mother, as a surprise for when she recovers—or in her memory if she does not. Begin with the tale of Koschei the Deathless. Only—do not leave me among the jackals and the harpies."

I let my face show conflict. "It is against my better judgement…but I will stay. At least for a little while."


	58. Chapter 58

I would have liked to share what had happened with Victor, but I did not want to disturb him while he was spell-casting, or to be found coming out of a part of the castle I, as a supposedly new immigrant to Latveria, should not know about. So I did not go to the secret chamber where he was hard at work, but instead returned to my old room, where I changed my stained skirt, and very carefully removed the blood from the setting of my ring with a cotton swab.

As much as I disliked admitting that Valeria was right about anything at all, the fact was that emeralds were delicate, the most delicate of all the precious stones. My engagement ring was a source of worry to me, because my life was far too active—to say the least—and that the stone might crack and fall out of the ring was a far too likely possibility.

Plus, the stone was enormous. To my eye, it was more like a cocktail ring than an engagement ring. I wondered what the wedding ring which Victor had commissioned would be like, if it was plain, or elaborate—and, of course, what the inscription was.

I decided, as I pulled the ribbon from the neck of a blouse, threaded the ring on it, and hung it around my neck, that I would wear only my wedding band, once I had a wedding band... I would say that my wedding ring had greater significance to me, it was overshadowed by the emerald, and that it had a much more personal meaning. Then I would see about having the emerald ring made into a pendant. It was certainly large enough.

I got my calligraphy supplies together, including my collapsible artist's desk, and went back down to the Great Hall, where there would be good light for most of the day, from one direction or another. As I borrowed a chair and set up my workstation, the Fearsome Four passed through, Doctor Doom with a look on his face like the wrath of God, a storm about to break, the Invincible Woman and the Inhuman Torch looking like they were ready to chew roofing nails through in their fury and frustration, and the It trailing behind like a whipped dog.

"The dimensional portal should take us…" I heard the impostor say as he passed my desk. He paused for a moment to shoot me a glance, "to a place where Magneto's powers will not work—but ours will."

That was all I heard. It was enough. I could guess the rest. He meant to lure the mutant leader there, and either kill him, or leave him stranded. It wasn't a bad plan, exactly—just one that was…doomed to failure. In this version of reality, the pretender and his family were not the heroes, not in any way, shape or form. The Laws of Heroics worked against them. The hero must always win. He may be killed doing it, but he must win.

It did mean that Magneto would probably be coming here soon. I wondered if he would remember me in this reality.

I clipped a piece of paper to my desk, uncorked a bottle of ink, took out my finest-nib glass pen, and began the tale of The Death of Koschei the Deathless.

'Once upon a time there was a Prince Ivan who had three beautiful sisters'…" I wrote, in a nice round uncial script, leaving plenty of room around the 'O' to go back and add an illumination later. I put down how he married his sisters off to three powerful shape changers—one who could turn himself into a falcon, another who could become an eagle, and the last who could take the form of a raven. Rather like superheroes, or mutants…

There had always been tales of people who could do such things—but recorded history was scarce of factual accounts. Until the twentieth century, that is. Then there was an explosion.

Strictly speaking, the 'mutants' weren't mutants as Charles Darwin theorized them. There was nothing natural about their development or evolution. The adaptation gene that meant some people developed powers in response to a high dose of radiation, such as that which turned the Fantastic Four into something approaching gods, was the same gene which produced mutants. It was also called the metamorphosis gene, or the meta-gene, and those who gained their powers later in life, meta-humans.

It was spliced into the human genome back before there was written history, by someone—several persons who could time-travel had claimed credit—Mister Sinister, Apokolips, among them. Nathaniel Richards, Reed Richard's 'old nutter' of a father, probably claimed it as well. Whoever it was had grabbed an individual or two in communities all over the globe, done some genetic surgery, and popped him/her back down into the gene pool. Several thousand years went by, in which the meta-gene lay dormant in its carriers—until and unless they were exposed to sufficient radiation.

Then it became active. And instead of dying fast of radiation poisoning, or slow of cancer, people changed.

Every single one of the people who went through the cosmic storm with Reed Richards had possessed that gene. What were the odds against that?

A million to one? More? Million to one chances cropped up nine times out of ten. And they always worked.

Steven Rogers, the 4F reject of World War Two, had volunteered to be injected with 'Super Soldier Serum' in a secret U.S. government program to produce a super-powered army. It had worked, and he became Captain America. He had the gene. What he did not know—but what I had discovered while I was finding out why Reed Richards inventions were not being put into production, was that he wasn't the first one on whom it had been tested. He was just the first one on whom it had worked. There was a secret graveyard of would-be heroes. It would destroy him to find that out, but I hadn't even considered going to his arch-enemy, the Red Skull, because I could not stand the thought of working for a white supremacist and former Nazi.

Like the gene for sickle-cell anemia, having one copy of which bestowed a natural resistance to malaria, and having two inflicted a disease, having two copies of the meta-gene made a difference. That was what made a person a mutant. There was sufficient 'background' radiation now to induce changes at conception. Most mutants were as normal-looking and seeming as anyone else—until puberty hit, and they began to develop in lots of unexpected ways. They came into their powers, and some of them changed drastically in their appearance. By that time, though, they were old enough, big enough to defend themselves.

Most of them were normal looking and normal seeming at birth—but not all of them. That was the tragedy. Some mutant infants were born with terrible abnormalities, deformities—and with features that made it clear they were not ordinary birth defects.

Such babies didn't tend to live for very long. I remembered the baby that was born in the same hospital where my grandmother died. I had heard the nurses whispering about it, and I went to see it, curious about what a mutant looked like.

This one had a greenish peach fuzz all over its body—and no eyes, not even empty eye sockets—just a smooth featureless head until its little nostrils and slit of a mouth. The next time I visited, it was dead—a natural crib death, they said. It just stopped breathing, they said. Even then I wondered if someone had quietly helped Death by putting a hand over its face…

I dipped my pen again, and wrote 'Prince Ivan lived alone in his castle for a whole year after his sisters married, until he was both bored and lonely enough to go and visit them. He ordered his magnificent white horse saddled, and set off…"

I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed doing calligraphy. I had been too busy to keep up with it after college, but, if everything went as it ought to, doing calligraphy was a low-impact activity a pregnant woman might pursue. I wondered if Victor, like the impostor, remembered the stories Cynthia told him when he was little. A book of tales, remembered by Victor, written down by me—that would be a wonderful thing to read to a little one at bedtime.

That fuzzy baby in the hospital never got to be old enough to be read to.

One of my many grievances against the two men who purported to be the 'leaders' of the mutants—Professor Xavier and Magneto—was that neither took much of an interest in mutants until they were old enough and big enough to be costumed adventurers. There should be a rescue system in place to remove obvious mutant infants to safe, loving homes, rather than leaving them to the mercies of state-run care, or to abandonment and death.

What mutant-kind needed, other than for Magneto to keep his mouth shut, as his every pronouncement was a species relations disaster, and for Professor Xavier to stop teaching, because all he turned out of his school was one unhappy angst-ridden superhero after another, was a leader. A real leader, one who could not only inspire with words, but lead by example.

Someone who would stand up and say, 'We as a people need to stop waging war, and start earning wages, and we need to do it now. We need to stop being costumed adventurers, and instead become citizens. We don't need people who are willing to die for the mutant cause, we need those who are strong enough to live for it—every day, every single day of a long and useful life.'

Mutant-kind needed that sort of leader, but whoever it was, it wasn't going to be me. I could see what was needed, but I wasn't a mutant, for one thing, and for another, I had too much on my plate already. Being Lady Doom was at least two full time jobs, plus overtime into the bargain.

But it came with such excellent benefits! They were really, really amazing….Thinking about Victor put a smile on my face, as my pen ran dry. I dipped it again, and wrote:

'Ivan rode and rode, until he came to a field where a mighty battle had taken place, but all the soldiers who lay dead wore but one uniform. The prince cried out "Who slew this entire army? This was a mighty feat indeed!" One living man replied, "It was the warrior maiden Marya Morevna, who is as beautiful as the most beautiful of women and as valorous as the most valorous of men." "I would meet this maiden." said Prince Ivan.'

While I was writing that, I observed the return of the Fearsome Four, in a better mood than they were when they left. This time, the impostor did not glance my way, but went off in the direction of the communication room.

I continued writing. Ivan and the warrior maiden Marya Morevna meet, fall in love, and are married. She carries him off to her own realm (that was why I liked this fairy tale so much. Marya Morevna was her own woman!) She gave him the keys to the castle, and one day, after an extended honeymoon, she decides to go warring again. Before she left, she told him to watch over every thing, but not to go into that closet…

Laws of Heroics in action—of course he does, and finds that his wife has this skinny old guy—Koschei the Deathless, a very powerful and evil wizard chained up to the wall with twelve strong chains. He's been there ten years without food or water, so he begs Ivan for a drink. Ivan is more compassionate than he is smart. Once Koschei has drunk his fill, his powers and strength are restored. He breaks the chains and, laughing at Ivan, flies off to take Marya captive.

At that point the formerly powerful and strong Marya Morevna takes a turn for the worse. I blamed the Laws of Heroics for that one. She can't rescue herself, for some reason, so Ivan has to do it. It takes him a while…

As I continued the story, I thought more about this reality which Victor and I found ourselves in. It had seemed to be pro-mutant, on the surface, but what it really was, was pro-Magneto. I had noticed that the night before. This reality had been designed for him. This poor imitation of Doom was who he was for a reason…

Magneto and Victor had been foes for years. Not as Reed Richards was—Victor and he were equally matched—but still foes. The difference was that every time Magneto went up against Victor—he lost. The events of the other day, when Victor not only rescued me but committed himself to bailing Genosha out of its difficulties—was only the latest altercation between the two. Victor was so far ahead of him—and all the other 'super-villains' of our reality—that he even sometimes gave Magneto the advantage, like spotting him a pawn at chess, so to speak.

Surely that must gall Magneto. Surely he must long to get the better of Victor, just once—and in this reality he could do that. He could defeat this 'Doctor Doom' with one hand tied behind his back—and that was just what was going to happen.

Someone had made these changes in reality expressly for the purpose of giving Magneto what he always wanted.

I wondered who could love him that much—not wisely, but too well. I didn't know enough about him to guess at that.

Someone loved Magneto, and that someone wasn't very wise. Giving people what they want doesn't make them happy, and often isn't good for them—witness this version of Kristoff and Valeria. Once you get what you want, you start wanting other things. Human beings are endless want-generators. If that person who loved Magneto was at all wise, he/she would have worked out whatever it was Magneto needed, and given him that.

I paused, and changed sheets of paper. What did Magneto need? My first thought was 'He needs a woman to look after him.', but that was flippant. Anyway, what woman in her right mind would have him?

What woman in her right mind would have Doctor Doom? Well, it was established that I might potentially be schizophrenic, so I wasn't necessarily in my right mind, but, what woman who knew what I knew about him WOULDN'T have him? And fight to keep him, if need be.

Magneto, the Holocaust survivor and mutant, needed to know that mutant-kind wasn't going to end up in the gas chambers. He needed to know he had helped to achieve that goal, that he had accomplished something with his life. He needed to know that his grandchildren would be safe, and that their grandchildren would be, too.

Speaking of whom—Magneto, his family, and several of his people were even now entering the Great Hall of Castle Doom…


	59. Chapter 59

I did not make any sudden movements, nothing that would call attention to myself, as the impostor Doom and his teammates met Magneto and with an obviously insincere and cheerful welcome. "Come—let us show you what I have done for you!" said the pretender, and led them away. I did catch a glimpse of Magneto's face as they went past. He looked---as if he had guessed an ambush was waiting for him. And as if he were prepared for it.

One of Magneto's people stayed behind—Polaris, his green-haired adopted daughter, who possessed magnetic powers like his own. Oh, that was an error on the part of the false Doom. How could anyone with even half a brain not see that even if the plan involving that other dimension forever succeeded, Polaris would rescue them? So stupid. But no, villains never see the flaw in their plans. It's all part of the Laws of Heroics.

I looked down at the page I was working on, where I had written, 'So his brothers-in-law gathered together the pieces of Ivan's body, washed them, put them back together in their proper order, sprinkled it with the Water of Death—and the pieces joined up together again. Then they sprinkled him with the Water of Life—and he sprang up from the ground, as lively and healthy as ever.'

People came back to life all the time—that is, the heroes and villains did. When the terrorists flew their planes into the Twin Towers on 9/11, none of the people killed that day came back to life. Not one of them. Some people were subject to the laws of the real world. Some were governed by the Laws of Heroics. I wanted the same natural laws to apply to everyone.

What if I were to kill Magneto? Just to kill him, without asking questions? It might bring this 'end of the world as we know it' to an end. It wasn't as if he'd be dead permanently. Sooner or later, he would come back.

It sounded like a pretty good idea to me. It might hurt for a moment, but he'd get over it.

I unclipped the page from the desk, and tore it in half, then in half again. Then I got out a fresh sheet, and wrote the story the way I thought it should have gone. 'Once Koshchei was free, he seized Ivan and flew off with him. Then he went to Marya Morevna, and said "I have taken your husband prisoner, and until you surrender to me all your lands and fortune, he shall cut the wood for my fires, and draw water from my well, and all other tasks I shall put him to as well, until his hands and his feet blister from his exertions, and the blisters break and bleed, and he curses the day he ever heard your name."

"Oh, no!" cried Marya Morevna.'

Then I went on with the story. She was going to rescue Ivan, and kill Koschei forever…

The Fearsome Four returned, in higher spirits than before. "Deal with the Lady Polaris, Valeria. The It shall destroy the dimensional portal before it goes back to its cage—and then, Kristoff, I want you to incinerate every fragment of the mess. I'm going off to draft a speech about the…accident which so tragically took the lives of the House of M…" the impostor tossed over his shoulder as he passed through the Great Hall.

"No." said Ben Grimm.

"No!" asked the pretender.

"No more cages. No more filth. I'm part of this team. I want—respect."

"Respect?" The impostor Doom was outraged. "You're a monstrosity. We already give you far more respect than you deserve. What I ought to do is thrash you within an inch of your miserable, worthless life."

The It stood silent, immovable.

The impostor backed down. "Fine. But for your sake, you'd better be housebroken." He left in one direction, while Ben Grimm shambled off in the other.

That left Valeria and Kristoff, mother and son.

"Hey, Mom, can I help you with Polaris?" Kristoff asked.

"Of course, my sweet prince." She crooned to him. "Although I know who I wish we were about to dispose of…" I could feel them both looking pointedly at me. I kept writing, in blithe unconcern. Things were about to come to a head. I could feel it.

"The Lady Polaris's green hair is really pretty." Kristoff said. "I can't wait to watch it burn!"

The two of them went off in search of Polaris.

Funny, I didn't hear the sort of sound I would have expected—the sound of Ben Grimm smashing up a dimensional portal. It should have been very, very loud indeed.

That meant he wasn't doing it.

That meant the dimensional portal was still intact.

I put my finished pages away in a folder, so they wouldn't be ruined. It was only a matter of time now—.

I watched the It lead Polaris back to the chamber where the equipment that opened the dimensional portal was kept. Shortly thereafter, the House of M emerged. They didn't look happy…

The Great Hall of Castle Doom erupted into violence as Magneto and his Enforcers retaliated against Doom's failed attempt to lure them into another dimension and slaughter them there, where the laws of physics were different and Magneto's powers would not work. The castle's security forces streamed in from all directions to join the affray, but they were ineffectual against the powers of the mutants, being all too human.

The only forces on Doom's side who were at all effective were the Invincible Woman and the Inhuman Torch, and they were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Magneto and Doom were locked in combat in the middle of the battle, and it was not going well for the ruler of Latveria—not well at all.

Not that I particularly cared if the impostor was killed or not—my moment of sympathy for him was long past. I had another goal now—to kill Magneto, and hopefully turn the world back to normal

I had to do something to distract Magneto. I seized an inkwell off my desk, and visually tracked the blur and the falling bodies that showed where Quicksilver, Magneto's super-fast son had just been. If I aimed for him and let fly a hundred thousand times, I could never hope to hit him, not at the speeds of which he was capable.

So instead I deliberately threw the inkwell in a direction where he wasn't. I hit him square on the chin—or rather, he ran right into my missile.

The Heroic Law of Odds: Million to one chances always succeed.

I admit I first encountered that law in the works of Terry Pratchett, but careful observation had proved it to be true.

The 'thwack' that was barely audible above the din when the inkpot hit was as nothing to the sound of Quicksilver's skull hitting the stone floor with a dull 'thunk'. At the speed he was going before I intervened, his head shattered like a watermelon falling off a speeding truck.

"Pietro!" howled Magneto, breaking off his fight with Doom to rush to his son's side. He was not the mutant leader now; he was a father. I didn't waste a moment. I took up my pen, stopped him by the ludicrously easy tactic of stepping on his cape.

As he turned toward me to remonstrate, I grabbed a handful of his silver hair in one hand, and brought my other hand around in an arc that ended when my pen pierced his eye. His electromagnetic powers washed over me, to no avail. I wore nothing metal, and my pen was made in Venice. It was completely impervious to his powers. It was a slender shaft of tinted and shaped glass—that came to a wicked point.

He shrieked in pain, and vitreous humor spurted out over my hand, but I drove the pen in deeper still, until it dug into the brain, and then I dragged it from one end of the eye socket to the other, until I felt the fragile glass snap and splinter.

Magneto gurgled, twitched, and died, sagging suddenly to the flagstones.

All around me, the battle had ground to a sudden, shocked halt. "You—you killed him," someone said, in disbelief.

"I killed them both." I said, wearily. The blue-black ink stains on my hand and on Pietro's face bore witness to my other deed.

Doom pushed his way through the crowd, looked at the corpses, at the stump of pen which I still held in my hand, fragments of brain tissue adhering to it.

"You," he breathed, in awe and triumph. The breathtakingly handsome face, the perfect, unscarred face of Victor Von Doom turned toward me. "This is your doing. For your services and loyalty, I here create you the Duchess of Brantzia and Keeper of the Citadel."

"Brantzia is mine!" protested his wife, Valeria, the Invincible Woman, who had fought her way through the press to his side. "And the Citadel is mine!" insisted their adopted son, Kristoff, the Inhuman Torch.

"Bah! They were yours." growled their leader. "I bestowed them and can reclaim them as I choose. Take care that is not all that you lose." he said, glaring at them. "And as for that traitor!" he spat, looking at the rock-like, orange skinned It that crouched in the corner, "I shall have it crushed into a million fragments and used to make ornamental garden paths."

"Now!" he raised his voice, speaking to everyone, Latverians and mutants both. "The House of Magneto is overthrown. Your leader and his heir lie broken and bleeding on my floor. The House of Doom rules over all!"

He turned back to me. "Whatever it is you want, you have but to name it, and it is yours." He took my hand, and looked searchingly into my eyes. Yep, I had him hooked. He was prepared to divorce Valeria and disown Kristoff on the spot.

"I thank you for the offer, but there is nothing you can grant or give me that I want." I said, fighting the impulse to free my hand.

"Are you so sure?" he asked, in a velvety undertone.

"There is something that I want," came another voice, from the head of the stairs. "And that is that you should let go of my wife's hand." All heads turned to look at the imposing masked figure that stood there, his cloak falling about him like two great wings.

Victor came down the Great Stair, as only he could. "You!" fulminated the Doom who stood before me. "Who are you to appear in my armor, in my castle? Why do you not show your face, you craven?"

"Who are you, who calls himself Victor Von Doom?" retorted my Victor. He had the air of authority that the other Doom lacked, the aura of command. He swept across the room toward us. "For I tell you now that I and I alone am Doom, and you, who bowed your neck under the yoke of this offal," the toe of his boot prodded Magneto, "are nothing but the palest shade of what I am. How many years did you seek to free yourself, you and yours? And in the little time which my wife has spent here among you she vanquished them with less effort than it would take her to swat a fly."

My Victor turned to me. "Come. Swiftly. Put your arms around my neck." I did so. He slid an arm around me, boosted me up so I was half sitting on it, then raised his other hand and vaporized a large hole in the roof. The suit's propulsion field engaged, and we shot up into the sky, leaving a very startled Great Hall full of people below us.

"My dear, I have the answer." He said, shielding me from the wind with his cloak. "The one behind this is Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch."

"Magneto's daughter and Quicksilver's twin," I said, identifying her immediately. "She made her father the ruler of the world, using her powers."

"Yes." He confirmed it, nodding. "She may again. It is not beyond her powers to resurrect them even now. She is attempting to create her own private world where she and everyone she loves have what they always wanted. Unfortunately, she has imposed it upon our own."

"There is a problem with that." I said, as I wiped my hands on my smock. "A lot of the people she didn't love are dead. Given that she was for many years an Avenger and Janet's friend, she must be—quite literally—insane."

"She is." was his reply. "Nor does she want to be helped, because if she returns to sanity, her two sons will cease to exist."

We were on a really tough deadline to get things back to normal, too. Our wedding was supposed to be tomorrow.

"Cease to exist?" I asked, as he adjusted the direction in which we flew. "How can that be?"

"They are not precisely real." Victor said. "Have you ever heard of the Vision?"

"Costumed adventurer, crimson skin, wears a green and yellow costume, and is an android." I identified him.

"Precisely. He was Wanda Maximoff's husband. Being an android—fully functional or not, I do not know—he was not capable of siring children. Childless and unhappy, the Scarlet Witch participated in a magical rite which summoned to her empty womb two amorphous fragments of that same substance of which Mephisto, Hell, and all its demons are made. There they took root, and grew. The intensity of her desire and belief imprinted upon them the form they had when they were born—twin boys."

"Did she know they were really demonic ectoplasm?"

"No. She thought they were hers—hers and her husband's."

"What kind of a woman marries an android and then believes she can have children—even with the help of magic? Don't answer, that's rhetorical. Where are we going, by the way?"

"To the Citadel. Time is of the essence, and I cannot carry you like this all the way to Genosha, where the Scarlet Witch is now. You would freeze if I were to go any faster."

"What of the impostors?"

"We shall deal with them there. At the moment, you are rather vulnerable."

"All right." I agreed. "What brought Wanda to this state, anyway? What melted down in her life?"

"The Vision belonged to the United States' federal government. They—ah—repossessed him, on the grounds that he was a security risk. Then someone realized the twins sometimes ceased to exist when she was not thinking about them. They were extremely handsome children—however, they were not normal. They never got dirty—never squabbled—never tore their clothes or cried. No children are as abnormally well-behaved as those two were."

"Like a pair of dolls, that she could cuddle and dress up and play with, but which she could put back in their box and not worry about when she wanted to do something else…" I said, thinking about it.

"A very apt comparison. Here we are…" He landed us on the roof of the Citadel. "I believe we have about fifteen minutes before the impostor should catch up with us. Come."

We went down the stairs. "When did Wanda find out about her sons' true nature--or did she?"

"A year ago or so. She was devastated—she went quite mad for a time. Finally, in a misguided effort to be compassionate, Dame Agatha, her mentor in witchcraft, and Franklin Richards's nanny, took away the memory of her children entirely."

"That was a terrible idea. That sort of fix never works—and it isn't as if Wanda was the only person who has ever lost people she loved—even if they were only figments of her imagination in the first place. It's part of being human. You deal with your loss—you grieve, you move on, you grow."

"I agree with you. Agatha's poor decision led to the murder, by Wanda Maximoff, of several of the Avengers, about six months ago—when they observed she was descending once more into madness. Since then, she has been kept drugged—and in the care of Professor Xavier."

"Another error. Where did Wanda get the power to do all of this, anyway?" I asked. "I thought her power was to cast hexes and make things go wrong—little pockets of localized bad luck. Sort of a human personification of Murphy's Law."

"It was, but she found that she could affect probability on a larger scale than that. This way." We went in through a double door into a high-security area, where I had never been before.

"I do mean to fly us to Genosha in a vehicle, but you will require greater protections than that." He opened a vault as I watched. Inside—were several spare suits of his armor.

"You don't mean…?"

"Yes." he said, in all seriousness. "You are going to wear one of my suits. Start changing into this—." He handed me a set of—silk long johns? "You will need to use the bathroom first. I'm afraid the—arrangements in the suit are not unisex."

* * *

A/N: Next Chapter--what you have been waiting for: Doom vs DOOM! 


	60. Chapter 60

I'm afraid I gaped at him for a moment in simple mute astonishment, while he went on: "There is no time in which to re-tool it to fit you, but I believe that I can improvise some padding to keep the torso in place. Make haste. The bathroom is there." He pointed.

"But—." I began.

"Go!" He commanded, and called after me. "Tie your hair back securely while you are at it!"

I went. The voice he was using said he was not going to put up with any arguing, so I ran a quick cost-benefits analysis in my head, and decided to go along with it.

The garments he had given me were not unlike long-johns, but instead of silk, they were the ever-popular unstable molecules, which happily stretched or shrank to fit the individual wearer. They were nearly indestructible, and clung nicely to abdominal muscles, which meant that the costumed adventurer community as a whole tended to use it almost exclusively. I would have liked to see Victor wearing those long-johns much more that I liked seeing myself in them…But this was not the time to think about that.

On my return, I found Victor making adjustments to the mask of the armor he was proposing I should wear. He looked up. "Good. Have you got your clothes? Bring them here, and yourself as well. The boots are there—." He gestured at a pair of metal footgear. "You look stricken, my dear. Is something the matter?"

"Um. Yes. Victor, I just don't know about this…"

"I, however, do. It should come as no surprise to you—is there enough padding in the toes?—that I took care to monitor what was going on even while I was spell-casting. You have made yourself some rancorous enemies today. Stand up." He began fitting the greaves of the armor around my calves as he spoke.

"You are intelligent, resourceful, and ingenious—none of which will deflect one well-placed fireball. They are on their way here even now. If you are armored and armed, the fight is three against two—and those two, you and I, are smarter than the three of them put together. Bend your knee." I complied.

"If you are not—the fight is three against one, and I would be hindered by the need to protect you." he said. I was armored up to the waist by that time. "Take a few steps."

I did. Rather than weighing a ton, as I had expected, wearing the armor was—like the first time I drove a car with power steering, after years of wrestling the wheel by brute force. It was unexpectedly easy and light—but when I made too sudden of a move, I overcompensated and lost my balance.

"Careful. Now the padding—your clothes." He started wrapping them around my midsection. A pair of sport shoulder pads completed it. He took the front and back plates and had me hold the front in place while he fastened them together.

"There. Not quite the 'steel bustier' you once mentioned with dismay, but it will serve. You played the lot of them as Mozart must have played the harpsichord—like a virtuoso. Your left arm, please. They will be after your head. Now, the suit's systems will do a lot of the work for you—but not all of it. Avoid moving too fast. The readouts for the computer in it are the lenses in the mask. The letters are transparent. The weaponry controls are in the gauntlets--." He gave me the gloves.

I put them on, as he fit the cowl and back of the helmet in place. They were made of a lot of interlocking plates, to give the head and neck mobility.

Unfortunately, since I was about three inches shorter than he was, the shoulders of the armor were somewhere up around my ears. I was glad I could not see myself. And my hair, which was bunched up around the back of my neck, made me itch. Actually, knowing there was no way I could scratch myself made me itch all over. I wondered how Victor could bear it.

"Keep in mind that the system is live. Oh, and there is a bomb in the breastplate." He threw one of his green over tunics over the armor, and fastened the cape around my shoulders.

"A bomb in the breastplate!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. In case anyone should be so foolish as to try to peel the armor off me—in this case, you. Don't worry—it's shaped to detonate outward, at the one who is doing the peeling. Even should it go off, it won't hurt you—the anti-shock devices are excellent. You'll hardly feel a thing. It won't leave so much as a mark on your skin."

"How many times have you had the bomb go off while you were wearing the suit?" I asked

"In combat? Four…I have disabled the lock on this faceplate—normally the only way to remove it is with the key I have in this ring—." He showed me the ring, worn under his glove. "You might need to remove it on your own, however."

"Thank you…" I said, as he slid the mask that was a twin of his own over my face—and as it clicked into place, the suit came alive around me.

Right on cue, there was a tremendous booming sound. The impostors had arrived.

They had made an impressive hole in the outer wall of the Citadel. I could only hope it wasn't a retaining wall, but I was afraid it was.

"Which one of them is which?" asked Kristoff.

"Does it matter?" Valeria responded.

"Surrender now, and I promise you a quick and merciful death. Resist—and a merciful death is the last thing you will have." vowed the impostor. I had not seen him when he was using his Mr. Fantastic-like powers before. His right arm ended in a sledgehammer shape, and instead of Reed Richards' ordinary Caucasian skin-tone, his skin had the cold, liquid sheen of mercury. Metal skin—that struck a chord somewhere in my head, but where?

"You weary and disgust me." replied Victor. "Although you are but a mere puppet, I shall enjoy obliterating you."

"Let it begin, then. Valeria—Kristoff—Deal with that one. Leave this one to me." The pretender said, and so it began.

It was clear from the start that Victor was by far the better fighter. He had often fought Reed Richards hand to hand, and studied how to fight someone with stretching powers. The impostor was not as familiar with fighting someone in such a sophisticated and versatile suit of armor. He might shape his limbs into swords, spikes or hammers, but his blows rained down ineffectually. His magic could find no purchase.

I, on the other hand, was not doing so well. The suit was giving me trouble. Left to my own devices, I would have turned and fled—to lure the Invincible Woman and the Inhuman Torch into the bowels of the Citadel, where I would have come up with something. In the suit, however, I was clumsy, awkward, disoriented by the computer readouts that flashed in my eyes. I could aim and fire the energy weapons, but I rarely hit either of them.

If I had an hour to familiarize myself with the suit—but I didn't. But if I could use my obvious bumbling to my advantage—. I staggered exaggeratedly into the wall, fired in Kristoff's direction—and missed, vaporizing an area of the wall behind him.

"Look at how clumsy she is, Mother! This will be easy."

"Save some for me, Darling!"

I aimed and fired again—once again missing Kristoff. "You sure aren't as good with weapons as you are with lies!" he taunted me.

He just didn't know what I was aiming at. I fired again—and an enormous chunk of the Citadel above him collapsed on his head.

"Kriatoff!" Valeria flew to his side, and used her powers to lift the stone off him. Once she was sure he was all right, she turned to me. "Let's see how well you breathe with one of my invisible force fields cutting off your air!"

I put my hands up to my head, feeling a solid bubble around it. The air quickly grew stuffy. The readouts in the lenses flashed at me, "Ambient oxygen levels dropping. CO² levels rising above acceptable. Switching to life-support." The external air vents snapped shut, and fresh air flooded my helmet. Damn, but Victor did good work! He thought of everything.

I straightened up, and advanced on Valeria. "Not had enough yet? I know I haven't. Here!" She stopped me in my tracks with another force field. "You were playing up to him, I know it."

She hissed in my face. "Nasty piece that you are. Feel this? I'm putting one of my force fields inside your armor, and I'm going to expand it until it bursts like a grape. Then I'll let my son cook you on the half-shell—!"

"No—!" I cried. "It's dangerous—."

"Screw that!" she spat. Well, I had tried.

The bomb in my chest plate went off. The explosion knocked me flat on my back, but as Victor had said, it didn't hurt, and the shock absorbers were excellent. I got to my feet and took a few tentative steps forward, to where Valeria lay, flat on hers.

She was dying. I could tell. There was a hole in her midsection that went all the way back to her spinal column. As I watched, she twitched, gurgled, and died. The glamour died with her. She made a pathetically ugly corpse. I felt ill.

"Mother!" cried Kristoff, horrified. He struggled to his feet, pointed at me, and said, "I'll roast you alive for this!" Tears boiled away on his face as fast as he shed them, as he went nova at me.

I staggered back, pinned against the wall by the force of the flames he sent at me in a steady stream. It took a long time for the armor to heat up, the readouts keeping me informed of the rising external temperature. I did not start to sweat until the suit began to glow a dull red—and then I heard Victor say three terrible words in an arcane language.

Then Kristoff started to scream, because Victor had not taken away his power—only his invulnerability to it. The smell of cooking meat was strong.

"Suffer as you have made others suffer." Victor said to him, as he died.

There was a brief silence, punctuated only by the pings of cooling metal, as my suit recovered from the heat Kristoff had thrown at it.

"It is done." Victor said. "I promised you would get your blows in before he died. This way—."

The impostor had been stretched to his limit, or perhaps beyond. Looking at what Victor had done to him was like looking at a lot of silver 'Silly String'—the foamy plastic that came in aerosol can which firmed up when it came into contact with the air. He was all over the place—knotted and tangled around pillars, trailing on the floor.

"His head is over here." Victor led me to him.

The eyelids of the impostor flickered at our approach. "Kill me." he pleaded.

"In a moment." Victor promised him, and to me, "My dear—?", gesturing at the impostor's head.

I took a deep breath. Cruelty did not come naturally to me. Mischief did, but not cruelty. I didn't want to become the sort of person to whom cruelty came naturally. Whatever I did here, today, to this Doom, impostor though he was—would be the first step in that direction.

Then an insight clicked into place. "Ave Doom, Rex Mundi." I said.

"Receiving orders." The impostor said, automatically, as he had been programmed to do. "What?" he asked, startled at his own pronouncement.

"Hah!" Victor slapped the pillar next to him. "Priceless!"

"Remember your activation." I told the Doombot.

"Unit 23, inception date…." It reeled off its vital statistics.

"You said your wife and your son were not who you thought they were. Well, you weren't who you thought you were either." I said. "Complete data purge and memwipe."

It fought the command for a fraction of a second. "As you so order…" The glow in its eyes faded and went out.

"How could you tell?" asked Victor. "It performed magics—which it should not have been able to do. That fact alone blinded me."

"I don't know how or why it could do magic, but there was the fact that not only did he and Valeria have no biological children, but he had never had his sperm analyzed. Then, you mentioned that the Vision, Wanda's husband, was an android. And the way his skin changed when he stretched reminded me of the second Terminator movie, and the CGI assassin. In the end, though—I think it came down to this: Valeria aside, how could any human being who grew up within Boris' sphere of influence not be deeply affected by his genuine goodness—or his sense of honor?"

"I see. We are done here—you already have reclaimed your ring, and these creatures are disposed of. Now for Genosha—and the Scarlet Witch." Victor said.

"Hold!" a strange voice came from above us. "You are summoned!"

With that, the Silver Surfer glided down from the sky on his board.

---------------------------

A/N: Next chapter, things get cosmic!


	61. Chapter 61

How to explain the Silver Surfer? Imagine a man built like an Olympic swimmer, shaved bald as an egg, and wearing only a very brief pair of trunks. Give him a surfboard, and plate them both silver. Silver body paint won't do—it just doesn't have that mirror-like smoothness. Add to that a soul akin to that of Gandhi, and a tendency to soliloquize like Hamlet, and you have the Silver Surfer.

The surfboard is actually an interstellar space vehicle with both life support and artificial gravity of a sort—the details of which are unknown to me—but it looks like a surfboard. Hence his name.

The Surfer started off life as Norrin Radd on the planet Zenn-La, a nice guy with a nice girlfriend named Shalla. Then one day, Galactus, the Devourer of Worlds, stopped by Zenn-La with the intent of consuming it.

Galactus…It is not possible to explain Galactus without deeply questioning the nature of the universe, but since I do that on a daily basis, I was prepared to try. Galactus is a phenomenally intelligent and powerful being who must consume the energies of planets which are capable of supporting life in order to survive. The problem with that is that most planets which are capable of supporting life do support life, and sometimes intelligent life at that.

I would like to think that Galactus would prefer not to consume life-bearing planets, just as humans might prefer not to eat crackers full of weevils—an example of the relative intelligence level of Galactus as compared to us—but when he is hungry enough, he just doesn't have a choice. Perhaps there are some humans who would rather starve than eat a weevil, but Galactus is not of that spirit.

Then I have to face the fact that Galactus looks like an ordinary man, albeit a giant—who has inexplicably chosen to wear a costume in violent shades of pink and purple which clash horribly with one another, and to top it with a helmet that looks like the top of an art-deco skyscraper, if an art-deco skyscraper had branches like a candelabra attached to it. That is when my head begins to hurt.

As seeking out inhabitable planets uses more energy and time than he prefers to exert, he employs heralds—people who he transforms with the Power Cosmic—to look for them for him. At the time that he went to Zenn-La, he had no herald. Norrin Radd offered to become his herald, if Galactus would spare his planet. Galactus agreed, and ordinary Norrin Radd became—the Silver Surfer.

He performed his task without rebellion—although he was inwardly tormented by what he had to do—condemn the populations of entire planets to be eaten by his master—until one day he found Earth. He refused to let Galactus consume the Earth. As a result, he was exiled here—and became—surprise, surprise—another superhero.

That was a while ago. I had heard that of late, he had been reinstated into Galactus' service. So why was he here now?

"Who summons us?" demanded Victor.

"Uatu, the Watcher." replied the Surfer. "He dares not come himself, for fear of disturbing the Nexus Being, so he requested my services of my master, that I might conduct you to the Blue Area of the Moon and back again."

"To what purpose?" asked Victor.

"Conference. Beyond that, I do not know." the Surfer replied.

"Doom answers no one's summons." Victor told him, haughtily.

"It is not you who are summoned, but she." Norrin Radd pointed at me. "I would not take you, Doom, for any reason."

"Me?" I asked, startled. "But why?—Oh, this is ridiculous! I don't care who he is or why he wants to talk to me. I refuse. We're a little busy just now!"

"Your refusal was anticipated. I cannot nor will not offer you physical force to compel you, but I am to tell you this. If you will go to him, the Watcher will tell you a thing you most fervently desire to know: whether or not you bear the seeds of madness in your genes."

Oh, that was good. Much better than Mephisto… Uatu was a Watcher—a nearly immortal, nearly omniscient telepathic alien race who had appointed themselves to observing everything that went on in the universe for reasons of their own. They rarely intervened with events—they only witnessed them. I could not guess why he would want to talk to me—when he had only to read my mind, no matter what the distance. He sure knew what bait to use. "I—All right. Yes."

"I forbid it." Victor said.

"Victor—"I looked at him. "Yes, I agreed I would promise to obey—but you agreed you would promise to respect. Why do you forbid it? Would I be in danger? Would the Watcher deceive me?"

"I mean that I forbid you to go alone. If you do this, I will accompany you. There is no other way." Victor folded his arms, and looked at the Silver Surfer.

"I would not have dealings with you. You are deceitful, false, full of guile—treacherous. Do you know what it was he did to me, under the guise of friendship?" Radd looked at me. "He pretended to befriend me, then siphoned off the Power Cosmic and took it for himself, leaving me weakened, on the brink of death, his prisoner. Had my master not erected a shield around the Earth to prevent me from traveling off of it, I know not what he would have done."

"My intentions were what they have always been!" Victor defended himself stonily. "I would have used them for the betterment of mankind!"

"By ruling them." The Surfer responded.

"I would make a better job of it than they themselves have done!"

"Wait a moment." I said. "Your instructions were to bring me, but if you want me to go along, you'll have to put up with Victor. Is this important enough to do that?"

Radd gave that some thought. "Yes. If he gives his word that he will behave as he ought to."

"Victor?" I turned to him.

"I have never behaved any other way—but I will give my word that I will take no action against him."

"Satisfied?" I asked the Surfer.

"It will have to do." The Silver Surfer scowled.

"Could you return us to Genosha, rather than here?" I asked. "It would save us some time."

"Yes." The Surfer said.

"Very well; let us go." Victor strode over, leapt up unto the board—which startled the Surfer—then gave me a hand up. We set off for the moon.

I don't get motion-sick as a rule, but as a rule I don't try to balance on a tiny little board (comparatively speaking) while the Earth drops away below me. I had been told that it was perfectly safe, but my stomach wasn't convinced. I had a massive attack of vertigo. I realized, to my horror, that because the mask had a grille over the mouth, if I threw up while wearing it, it would have _nowhere to go…_

"Victor, what do you do when you're wearing your armor and you start to feel nauseated?" I asked.

"Get to some private place, and—Take the mask off! Immediately!" he said, realizing it was not an idle question. "She is ill; turn back at once." he commanded the Surfer.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." I mumbled, fumbling with the closure that held the mask in place.

"You are not." Victor said. "Sit down, at least." I sank to my knees, letting the mask fall from my hand, and closed my eyes.

Not being able to see the spiraling Earth or the wheeling stars helped. I opened them again, just in time to see the Surfer turn, asking, "Is she all right?"—and in turning, he knocked the mask off the board with his foot, sending it spinning into the void.

I closed my eyes again, tight.

"Confound it—that was unfortunate. Half the suit's functions are disabled without the mask." Victor said. "Take care the life support does not fail now, Surfer—or it will be the worse for you."

"You need not threaten me." The Surfer replied. "Will you be all right?" he asked me. "We are now closer to the moon than we are to Earth—if you can go on, the Watcher will make you more comfortable."

"I'm all right—as long as I keep my eyes closed. Who is this 'Nexus Being' that Uatu daren't disturb?" I asked.

"Wanda Maximoff—the one known as the Scarlet Witch." Radd explained.

"Okay. Now, what does that mean?" I inquired.

"She exists at the very crux of our reality—a being of tremendous power, upon whom all things hinge." the surfer replied.

"Okay. Now what does that mean in practical terms?" I asked again. "There are dozens, if not hundreds, of beings of tremendous power, etcetera, flying around. You can hardly move for tripping over them sometimes."

"That is not so!" the Surfer answered.

"You think not?" Victor responded. "The Phoenix, your master, Franklin Richards—from time to time—The Beyonder, the Molecule Man, the…"

"Your point is taken." The Surfer said. "The nexus being personifies the character of our reality, and is its focal point, its anchor."

"For our entire reality? As it is, or as it was before?"

"As it—returns to." he said, uncertainly.

"So our reality is personified—to some extent determined—by Magneto's daughter, a woman who is sometimes insane, who married an android and thought they could have children without there being any sperm involved, whose children are products of her imagination? That's not sounding good for our reality… It doesn't sound like a very good system for running a universe. Who decides who gets to be the nexus being, anyway?" I was getting annoyed.

"I do not know." The Surfer said, sounding even more uncertain. "You would have to ask Uatu."

"I said I would take no action against you." Victor put in, sounding cheerful. "I never said I would protect you from my wife. She has a way of inflicting existential uncertainty on the unwary."

"We are here." Radd announced. The board glided to a halt before the feet—of a fifty foot tall toddler wearing a blue and white toga.

_**I greet you.**_ came from a voice inside my head. _**I am Uatu, the Watcher.**_

"Hello." I replied. He wasn't actually a toddler, in all truth, but his head was grossly oversized by human standards, just as a baby's is.

"What is it you want from my wife?" Victor did not waste time on pleasantries.

_**I want to ask her why the timestream is being manipulated—for I, who have watched this planet since before life began upon it, cannot perceive the manipulation, not who is doing it. I do not summon her merely to dispute with her—for I cannot see the date of Wanda and Pietro Maximoff's birth, nor reconcile it with the facts as they are.**_

The massive face did not change as he related, _**Magda Lensherr, who was the first wife of Magneto, and their mother, was a woman of twenty when she escaped the death camp. Her first child was born five years later, died four and a half years after that. She was thirty when she bore Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch—yet they are but twenty-seven now, and I cannot find in my memory how this should be. It is not Wanda Maximoff's doing. I do not know whose doing it is…and I am frightened. This cannot be—yet it is.**_

"I believe it is being changed so that a certain set of people—the costumed adventurer community—does not change very much—so they do not age, or grow out of being superheroes, or suffer physical decline, or die permanently. It does not affect everyone. Many people are born, grow up, live out their lives and die without being affected directly—only their memories are affected."

**_You say this state of existence began about forty-five years ago. I do not remember when it began. I have not noticed it until you came to my attention. I merely witness all—I do not ascribe importance to every thing I observe._**

"You would not have noticed when it began because not only is the...seminal event caught up in the distortion—you are also. You see, until the event occurred—you didn't even exist. After the event—you and your people have been around since before the earth was ever formed. It affects not just everything that has happened since then—but everything that ever happened before it, as well." I said, thinking that this would be an excellent moment to tell me that I really was schizophrenic and delusional.

_**You spoke of proofs. I can perceive the secondary materials which you collected together—the ones which are dispersed throughout the attic of the domicile your father's mother owned. They are powerful arguments for the truth of your statements. However, I cannot see what is within the hidden box—the box which you purchased at the 'yard sale'. I cannot even access them within your memories. It is a grey area. This is an unknown thing among my race. What was the event which began this manipulation of time?**_

I took a deep breath. This was going to have a most interesting effect on Victor, I knew it. "Back around 1961, Reed Richards wanted to reach the moon before the Soviets did, so he, his best friend Benjamin Grimm, his fiancée, Susan, and her brother, Johnny Storm, snuck aboard the rocket he was building for the United States Government, took it, and tried for the first moon landing. They didn't make it. They were caught in a cosmic storm, and crash-landed back on Earth, where they found they had acquired some strange new powers."

"Richards!" Victor said, with grim satisfaction. "I might have known he was behind this." The other shoe had not yet dropped; I was waiting for that.

Uatu said, **_Yet you have not told Reed Richards of this._** It was a statement, not a question.

"No. It sounds insane even now. All I could do—was amass evidence. I can't explain more without my proof from my grandmother's attic." I looked at my feet.

_**It does not exist in this reality. Once you have recovered them, I would appreciate it if we might discuss this further. At this moment, Stephen Strange is preparing to send his astral form forth to visit Wanda Maximoff, while the heroes who remain gather to attack Magneto's palace. Neither she nor they yet know that her father and brother lie dead. I am blocking that knowledge from Charles Xavier, whose mind and powers she has pre-empted. That much I can do from this distance. I do this to recompense you for the time you have spent to come here.**_

"Then you are satisfied?" Victor asked.

**_No. But no more can be resolved at this time. I thank you._**

"What of the promise you made through the Silver Surfer?" I asked. I had not forgotten that. "He said you would tell me…"

**_If you will develop schizophrenia or not. You have in you the genetic factors—_**

My heart sank.

**_—but you will never develop the condition. You know of the connection between the diseases known as 'cowpox' and 'smallpox'. The first is a minor ailment—the second, a dreaded disease that leaves disfigurement and death in its wake._**

"Yes, but they're so similar that the anti-bodies the immune system produces against cowpox serve as protection against the smallpox. That was how vaccination began. It gave vaccination and vaccines their names— from vaca, meaning cow."

_**Your obsession with these matters we have discussed is a very small madness. It serves to vaccinate you against the greater madness you fear.**_

"Oh." That was… interesting. Well, everybody in the world was secretly convinced they were a little insane; it was part of the human condition. At least in my case there was some justification. "What about the children I might have—will they be at risk?"

_**Of those not yet conceived, I cannot know—but I can tell you that the daughter you now carry, though she is but a cluster of sixteen cells at this moment, has only partial copies of the factors that produce schizophrenia. She will never develop it.**_

Beside me, I heard Victor breathe in sharply, and my hand crept, almost of its own accord, to my belly—or, rather, my glove went to the abdominal section of the breastplate with the bomb crater in it. "A daughter." I whispered. The future was getting so close that it was already here…

"A daughter." Victor echoed, jubilant. There was a distinct hint of testosterone based 'Yes, I am the Man!' in his voice.

"Don't go beating your chest just yet," I play-scolded him. "Anything might happen. I could sneeze and dislodge her."

" Then don't sneeze." he commanded. "Yes, I know, but all the same…Joviana."

_**You need not fear. In all the futures that I see branching out from this moment, she is in them. Farewell. I shall watch you—all of you—with particular interest from now on.**_

I was smiling so wide my face was aching. I couldn't do anything else. "Thank you." I told Uatu.

"I add my thanks to hers, Watcher. This news is most welcome, and I am grateful for it."

The Watcher made a slight bow, and was gone.

"I wish you happiness in your union and your child." the Silver Surfer told us. "It is more than you deserve, Doom. I hope you will come to merit it—in time."

"Let us return to Earth." Victor said, "or else this child shall be homeless. Not a bump nor a swerve as you go, Surfer—as smooth a flight as can be—or else."

"I have told you before that you need not threaten me, Doom. I shall do so for her –for their sake, not yours."

As we left the moon, Victor turned to me, and asked, softly, "I hope you do not regret this child's conception, my dear. Can you reconcile yourself to it? It will be well. I promise you that."

I looked at Victor. "I'm overwhelmingly happy and utterly terrified at the same time—but regret her? No. Your baby—yours and mine. I—oh, drat! I forgot to ask Uatu about the whole Nexus Being business!"

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A/N: Next chapter—Wanda!


	62. Chapter 62

"I need to get a song stuck in my head," I said, as we left the moon for Earth, Genosha, and Wanda in that order. I did not feel nauseated this time—I seemed to be over it, but given my condition, it would probably return.

"Why?" Victor asked.

"Because Uatu said Wanda is using Professor Xavier's telepathy. If I get a really obtrusive tune stuck in my head, it'll be like static on the radio. He won't be able to read my thoughts."

Thanks to Alfred Bester's classic science fiction novel, The Demolished Man, I knew what to do—and I knew just what album to do it with: They Might Be Giants album, Flood. "I'm your only friend, I'm not your only friend, but I'm a little glowing friend, but really I'm not actually your friend, but I am…" The tune was irresistibly catchy, the lyrics silly, strange and meaningless. It was perfect.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet. Make a little birdhouse in your soul!"

After a verse and a chorus, Victor nodded. "I understand. I cannot recall the last time I heard something as infectious. But, my dear—are you quite sure that driving her even madder is going to help?"

He was being facetious; I made a face at him, then sobered. "Victor—what are we going to do? As ill as she is—with the motives she has for keeping things the way they are—."

"I am afraid I shall simply have to kill her." he said, "but I will do so without causing her further suffering. It will be brief and painless."

I had killed her father and brother; how could I protest against Victor killing her? It wasn't as if she wouldn't come back, sooner or later.

The Silver Surfer, however, did not share my insight into the temporary nature of a superhero's death. "I cannot be a party to this! I will not be a party to this!"

"It's all right! That's the last resort, not the first, the one for when all else fails." I gave Victor a meaningful look—'Don't upset him by saying otherwise' and he gave me the slightest nod. "I promise you, I will do everything I can. I'll do my very best to help her." One madwoman to another…

"I have no reason to trust one who would wed with Doom—but neither have I reason to distrust you—as yet. Wanda Maximoff has suffered greatly, and is in need of compassion and understanding."

"Do either of you know if Wanda's madness has been diagnosed as anything specific?" I asked. "Bi-polar disorder, or schizophrenia? No, of course not. It can't be something that comparatively simple and straightforward, for which there are medications and courses of treatment."

"I believe the germ of her madness is thought to be the aftereffects of having been possessed by the Elder God Chthon. He imbued her with some trace of his magic at her birth, so that he might be able to take over her body later in life, should the occasion arise." Victor informed me.

"Okay." I said. "I was wondering what might have happened—because from what I had heard about her, she was one of the nicest people in the costumed adventurer game. People spoke of her as well-balanced, rational, good leadership skills, above average intelligence— considerably smarter than her brother—and then, a few years ago, she started changing."

"Yes. Do you perceive any particular Law of Heroics at work here?" Victor asked.

"Law of what?" the Surfer asked.

"It's a long story. I've been observing patterns in probability, and giving them names. Yes, actually. The Law of Female Disempowerment. Now, most men are physically stronger than most women—that's just a trait that goes along with testosterone. They also usually still earn more money, on the average—and I know for a fact that most of them don't want to date women who are more intelligent than they are. For all the progress feminism has made, these things remain the same.

"But when you add superpowers to the mix—the results are unpredictable. Many women have powers that make them equal—or superior—to men, at least where their powers are concerned.

"I have been studying this— over and over, I have seen that super-powered women whose powers are greater than the majority of those of the men around them—start having trouble with their powers. They suffer partial or total loss of their powers—for example, Janet Van Dyne, the Wasp, started off with 'stings' that were powerful enough to kill—but soon she was only able to stun or incapacitate. Storm of the X-Men lost hers completely for a while."

I went on. "If she doesn't lose her powers, she loses control over them, again, either partially or totally—for example Phoenix—or Jean Grey—of the X-Men. She went mad and started killing people before she killed herself. Wanda would seem to fit into that category—although this little fantasy world of hers would seem to need a lot of control. It seems to be her judgment that is missing."

"Interesting." Victor commented. "Why do you theorize that is?"

"Even though the causes seem to be different—I think the root of it is that women are still encouraged to fit in, to be liked—and many men are threatened by a strong, powerful woman who is in total control of herself. So she conforms—even if she isn't aware of what she is doing."

"What a—sad and sorry picture you paint of your sex—and, for that matter of mine!" Victor mused.

"I would like to think we are the exceptions." I told him. "Look—I was disoriented by the angle at which we're approaching, but that's Genosha. We're here."

The coastline came into clear view, and before long, we were directly above Magneto's palace. It had a certain grandeur about it—the flashy, Las Vegas kind, in my opinion.

"Can you set us down on that balcony, the one with the scarlet bougainvillea vine?" Victor asked the Silver Surfer. "My spell tells me she is very near."

"Yes. Unless—!" Thus far, we had not been noticed, but that had just changed. Even I could see the energy pulse that surged toward us. We were under attack.

"Here!" Victor seized me by the arms, our armors clashing loudly, and swung me bodily off the board. He held me suspended over the balcony for a moment, then let me drop. The shock absorbers were still doing their job—a three meter drop felt like no more than a fall of six centimeters. "I will join you when I can."

He and the Surfer rose to meet the palace's mutant security force. I, since I had no other bright ideas, opened the French doors that led inside, and stepped through.

I was in a spacious, attractive sun room, neat and tidy, but with a few children's toys scattered about…

Except that somewhere in the back of my head, something was telling me otherwise—much as I had seen through Doctor Strange's illusory business suit to the costume below. Wanda had been his student once. Perhaps this was the very same spell—that would explain why I could see through it.

It wasn't a visual glamour like Valeria's—those had been able to fool cameras. This was intended to fool the mind.

I looked around again. It was squalid. Several window panes were broken, and the wind had blown litter around the room. The rain and sun had faded and stained the upholstery and wall paper. There were several dead plants in pots with dirt as dry and solid as concrete. Nor were there any children's toys.

Why was Wanda using this spell to create the illusion of pretty normality, when she could rearrange all of reality? Perhaps because she knew it wasn't real…

I opened the other door, the one that led out of the sunroom into a hall. I could hear voices—as I went toward them, I pushed back the hood and the cowl, pulling my hair out. I wanted it to be obvious I wasn't Victor, or the impostor Doom.

The voices grew louder—a woman's voice, a man's—Doctor Strange's, in fact—and a child—or children.

"Playtime isn't talk-time." said a child, petulantly, with a hint of menace. Or—no, it wasn't a child's voice. It was a woman's voice, made shrill and squeaky like a child's.

Doctor Strange began to say something, but I drowned him out when I knocked on the door. The gauntlet made a lot of noise.

"Who's there?" asked the woman, in a normal voice.

"Is that Wanda Maximoff?" I asked in return.

"Yes. What do you want?" was her response.

"I have to talk to you. Can I come in?" I put a hand on the doorknob.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm Joviana—Von Doom."

There was a pause. "Who?" Since Wanda had been kept under heavy sedation and telepathic suggestions for six months, it followed that she wouldn't have heard about me-which was probably why I had not been included in her rearrangement.

"Joviana Von Doom. Victor and I only just got married. The actual ceremony is supposed to be tomorrow. You and the rest of your family were invited. Can I come in? It's important."

"I—No! I can't see anyone right now, I have a terrible headache. And my children need me. Go away!" she shrieked.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't do that. It's too important." I turned the knob, but the door was locked. Well, that was one thing the suit was good for. I held the door in place with one hand and ripped the entire locking mechanism out of it—and out of the wall.

The door swung open at a touch, and I went in.

It was an extremely feminine bedroom—very fluffy, very pink. Urgh. Like being inside a cone of cotton candy. In the middle of the floor sat a very beautiful young woman, only a little older than I. She had red hair and big blue eyes, and she had everything I lacked in terms of breasts, and then some. She looked ready for the Special Swimsuit Superhero Illustrated magazine cover shoot.

Except—something was wrong with Wanda Maximoff's eyes…


	63. Chapter 63

It wasn't as if I saw evil looking out of them, or somebody who wasn't Wanda, or anything else occult or uncanny, because I didn't.

When I was in sixth grade, a substitute math teacher accused me of cheating, because I didn't bother to put down all the calculations I used to solve a test on quadratic equations—I just put down the answers. It was more a matter of intuition than calculation. I didn't need to consciously think out every step, because I had a calculator in my head that worked on automatic.

Once I proved to the principal's satisfaction that I was coming up with them honestly—only that my thought processes worked faster than most—I learned that in order to be believed, I had to go back over my intuitions and identify everything that led to my conclusion.

In this case, my conclusion was, 'She's not crazy or possessed, she's sick.' Physically sick. What lead me to that conclusion?

Her eyes were jiggling—the irises quivered and jerked in rapid little movements. I had seen that twice before—a counselor at a day camp, and a girl I went to college with, had the same problem, but while they were perfectly healthy, Wanda wasn't. Her eyes were bulging slightly—again, something that could be normal, many people had prominent eyes, and the sight of me in Victor's armor, with the shoulders up around my ears would probably be enough to make somebody's eyes pop, but Wanda's looked swollen and strained. And in photographs I had seen, she had slightly deep-set eyes—this was not normal for her. But it was such a slight difference.

"Joviana, what are you doing here?" I tore my eyes away from Wanda to look at Doctor Strange, who was there in his floaty, transparent astral form. Physically he was elsewhere—he had sent his spirit forth to visit Wanda.

"Well," I said, improvising hastily, "I have a big problem. You see, I came to ask Wanda if she could undo what she's done to reality, because in this one, I went to Castle Doom, and the Victor who was living there not only didn't know me, he's married to somebody else, and right now, I really need a husband.

"You see, I just found out I'm pregnant, and I can't go to Victor and say, 'I know you don't know me, but not only are we married, but you're the father of this baby I'm going to have.' So since Janet, who I know is a friend of Wanda's, is also a friend of mine, I thought I would come and ask her if she would undo what she did long enough so I could have my wedding, and then maybe we—Wanda and I— could work out what plans she might have for us—Victor and me and our family, before she puts it back again."

"You're going to have a baby?" Wanda focused on that. "Oh, you must be so excited! What are you hoping for, a boy or a girl?"

"I'll be happy if it's healthy, whatever it is—but secretly—I hope it's a girl." I told her. Something else odd about Wanda—she had paused between the words 'hoping' and 'for', shivered slightly, and blinked.

"That's wonderful--." Her blue gaze was unfocused. "I'm sorry I was rude just now, but I get these terrible headaches—migraines, really, I throw up sometimes, they're so bad—and I just can't make them go away. Plus the boys take up so much of my time—Let me show them to you—. Billy? Will? Come meet Mommy's friend."

She wasn't going to find them easily. At my entry, the demonic protoplasms had vanished. "Oh, they're playing hide and seek with me! I'll just be a moment." She got to her feet—which wasn't easy for her—she lost her balance and I had to catch her. "Oh, thank you. I'm so clumsy these days, I don't know why…"

She started hunting around the room, and while she did that, Doctor Strange floated over to me, and hissed, "Joviana, if it's true, I'm sympathetic to your plight, but you're disturbing what I'm attempting to do here. Wanda is a very damaged, fragile individual, who is being held together only by the thread of her bond with her family. She needs to come to terms with what she has done—not be encouraged in it."

"What are you two talking about?" asked Wanda, who was looking under the bed, which had a pink floral dust ruffle, covered by a layer of lace, ornamented with swags of pearls and ribbon rosebuds. I would have loved it—when I was eight.

"Your headaches." I told her. "We're trying to work out how to make them go away for you."

"Oh! If you could, I would really appreciate it." She began to hum, 'I'm your only friend, I'm not your only friend…' while she hunted for her 'sons'. My signal-blocker was working. She did have Professor Xavier on her string somewhere, and he was passing on to her what he picked up from my head.

"Yes, I know. Stephen, I know there's all sorts of magical and mental and cosmic and metaphysical things at work here, but have you ruled out that something physical might be at the root of this? You were her teacher—did she always have nystagmus?" That was the medical term for the rapid involuntary eye movements I had observed in her.

"Nystagmus?" He sounded surprised. "No…"

"And her eyes seemed like they were bulging, to me. I'm pretty sure she had something like a seizure while I was talking to her. This tremor came over her, and she looked disoriented."

"I had ascribed that to her mental illness." he said. "She is a very sick woman. She told me she has been spending all her time up here—that the Wanda seen in public is a construct she made to take her place."

"Maybe because she doesn't want her family to see her physical deterioration. She doesn't want them to know that something is wrong."

"She has hardly deteriorated! Her madness is…"

"Did you see the trouble she's having getting around, even now? She's lost her physical equilibrium. And those headaches. Leaving all the business of her powers and the Nexus Being out of it, if she had come to you—or if her family brought her to you, back when you were practicing medicine, and reported that she was having those physical symptoms, along with major behavioral and cognitive changes, what would you start testing her for?"

Stephen Strange looked at Wanda, whose wide blue eyes were having difficulty focusing.

"A brain tumor…" he said, slowly.

Forty-five minutes later, I was assisting as Victor trepanned her skull. Doctor Strange was telling him exactly what he was seeing, with the help of his mystic amulet, the Eye of Agamotto, while Victor peeled back a flap of her scalp (which I had shaved and disinfected) and began to drill a hole in her braincase.

Trepanning was the oldest medical procedure known to man—there were prehistoric records of it, in the form of skulls which had very neat holes drilled in them—and some of the operations had been total successes, because the bone had started growing back. Cutting a hole in somebody's head to let out the demons went way, way, back…

Assisting was too strong a word. I had very little medical training beyond first aid, but I could slosh disinfectant around, mop up blood and find Victor a sterile vial to collect a sample of her cerebrospinal fluid. I just did what I was told.

After I had got the Sorcerer Supreme to think like a doctor again, and not like a superhero, he had taken advantage of his astral form to look inside her head. He diagnosed pilocytic astrocytomas, in the form of an optic nerve glioma, with concomitant gliomas in the thalamus and sellar regions. She had not one but several small tumors, which pressed on her brain and were causing many, if not all, of her difficulties—from her nystagmus to her behavioral changes.

Complicating this was psuedotumor cerebri—an abnormal build-up of cerebrospinal fluid that was putting even more pressure on her brain. That was what Victor was trying to alleviate now. The smell of bone burning as he worked was reminiscent of both meat cooking, and of having a tooth drilled at the dentist's office. Once the hole went all the way through, Victor took a syringe and used it to carefully extract several ccs of fluid.

"It's easing." Doctor Strange said. "Yes. That's good. Beautifully done, Victor."

"I never do anything less." Victor replied. "That should reduce her misery for long enough to get her to better facilities, but one makes do with what one has on hand."

The whole procedure had been performed in Magneto's dining room, on the dining room table itself, as the kitchen had no suitable work surfaces. It was as sterile and clean as we could make it, and we had put down plastic sheeting and newspapers. Doctor Strange had judged her condition so serious as to require immediate surgery—and that Victor should carry it out. He did not trust his hands to do it.

Victor was stitching her scalp back together when the first indication that the world was returning to normal arrived in the form of Quicksilver, who burst into the dining room at high speed and shouted, "What have you done to my sister?"

"I have only saved her life." Victor replied, haughtily. "Or at least helped to prolong it."

"He tells the truth." Doctor Strange told Pietro. "Your sister was in grave danger of permanent brain damage."

"What?" asked Pietro. I remembered that Wanda had been considered the bright one. Hopefully she would be again.

"Your sister has a brain tumor." I said. "She's probably had it for years—perhaps ever since Chthon possessed her. That was when she began acting out of character, wasn't it?"

"Yes—." Quicksilver replied. "Who are you?—Oh, right. Lady Doom. Father told me about you."

"How is your father—and where is he?" I asked.

"Joviana, we don't need you in here any longer." Doctor Strange said. "Why don't you and Pietro have a talk? I know you can fill him in on matters as they stand."

Wanda had agreed to be anesthetized, after some persuading on my part. Among the things she had divulged to me was the fact that her brother had come up with the idea of changing the world into a place where everybody had what they always wanted.

"Let's talk in the kitchen." I suggested. "I know I'm dying for a cup of coffee."

"What do you mean, on matters as they stand?" Pietro asked. "Will Wanda be all right?"

I gently nudged him out the door. "I hope so. She's got a lot of hard road ahead of her. Doctor Strange says the tumors are benign, but that only means they're not destructive to other cells. It doesn't mean they're not life-threatening. There's only so much room in her head…" I got him down the hall and into the kitchen.


	64. Chapter 64

"Do you know where things are?" I asked Pietro. "I don't want to make a mess."

"Yes." he said, and began opening cupboards. While he did that, I took off my improvised apron of newspaper taped over the armor, stripped off the rubber gloves, and washed my hands. Kitchens tend to relax people—there are so many good associations to them.

"What are they going to do to get rid of the tumor?", he looked at me as he filled the coffee maker with water

"Surgery, to start off with. What you saw in there was just to relieve the fluid build-up—she'll have to go to a hospital. Not all of the tumor is in an operable part of her brain, so for that she'll have to have radiation and chemo. Doctor Strange wants to brew up a batch of his Serum of the Seraphim for her, as well, but since the tumor is healthy tissue, only growing where it shouldn't, it has to come out first. The Serum can't differentiate like that. She'll also probably undergo a series of radiation treatments, chemotherapy—it'll take a while. She's going to need you—and her other friends—to help her through it."

"I'll be there." He turned the machine on, and sat. "She's always been there for me. What was it you have to tell me about?"

"I know you have a quick temper. I'm going to have to say some things you won't like to hear. Are you going to listen anyway?" I raised an eyebrow at him.

"I—You helped my sister. You've earned the right."

"Thank you. You're a father, Pietro. Your daughter lives on the moon with her mother, right?"

"That's right." He looked very tired. "Crystal and I have been fighting…"

"I understand. Do the Inhumans—Crystal's people—celebrate a child's birthday as we do? With cake, and ice cream, presents, games, things like that?" I asked.

"Yes. I don't see what you're getting at."

"I bet your Luna, if you asked, would say she'd like it to be her birthday every day. All the cake and soda she can cram in, sparkly princess hats, being the center of everybody's attention, playtime all day long—."

"I suppose so. Why?"

"I know you're a responsible father, though. You refused to let your little daughter be exposed to those mutagenic Mists—which I think was absolutely the correct decision." The Inhumans, Crystal's people, exposed all their children to a mist that would give them powers—and many of them wound up with especially strange ones. Like the Black Bolt, whose voice was so powerful—able to shatter mountains—that he never dared speak. "So instead of giving her what she wants, you make sure she gets what she needs, like vegetables, and little tasks to do, afternoon naps, lessons in good manners, and her ABCs."

"Yes, that's right." he replied, and got up to take mugs from another cupboard. "I try to do what my father didn't do—which is be there, even if her mother and I are fighting."

"That's good. She needs that. Well, since you know the distinction between them, why did you think it was a good idea to give your father—and the other people you loved—what they wanted, rather than what they needed?"

He slammed a carton of milk down on the counter, whirled so fast he was a blur, and leveled a finger at me. "You have—. Oh, shit. Oh, shit." He seemed to be cursing at himself rather than me, so I just looked at him as sympathetically as I could. "Everything I've ever done has just turned out—to be a disaster. It always goes wrong, and it's always my fault!"

"That's a fine way to talk about your own daughter. Two sugars, please, and just a drop of milk. That isn't true—and you know it. It's just more dramatic to feel sorry for yourself." I gave him a roguish smile. "You have good judgment, even if you don't always use it. You have—not a good, but a great heart, an enormous one. How many sons who had endured what you have from your father, would still find it in their hearts to give him the world?

"That's the next thing. Your father has some of the worst judgment I've ever come across. You know how he knows me? A few days ago, he and four of his people—Malice, Sabertooth, Toad, and Mastermind—abducted me, took me to that island in the Bermuda Triangle, and were going to kill me. Then, when your sister's illness got so much worse six months ago, what did he do? Take her to a hospital?"

"He doesn't trust hospitals." Pietro mumbled. "He believes hospitals won't give mutants the same treatment they do humans—or that they'll run tests on us."

"Your father needs to get his head out of his butt. He was going to run tests on me. Look at what all has been done to me, by mutants, over the course of the last week, between you, your father and your sister. Do I now hate and fear mutants? No. Would I be justified in hating and fearing them?"

"I—wouldn't blame you."

"I'd blame me. This is the twenty-first century. People don't look at minority groups in the same way they used to. 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy' is one proof of that. There are lots more. The problem is that—mutants don't have a good public image, largely because your father makes a lot of unfortunate decisions. Looking again at your sister's case—instead of going to a hospital, where she might have had six months worth of treatment by now, he brought her to Genosha, where she's been kept under heavy sedation and telepathic suggestions by Professor Xavier—who isn't blameless either. Was she having trouble seeing and keeping her balance when she tried to walk six months ago?"

"No. She did complain about having headaches, though." He said, and sipped his coffee.

At that point, the Toad, his arm in a cast and sling, appeared in the doorway, did a double take when he saw me, and vanished.

"Things seem to be getting back to normal." I remarked. "Your sister got a lot worse in those six months, then. Is your father the best person to be representing mutants to the rest of the world? Is he a leader with a good track record?"

"At least he's doing something!" Pietro flared up. "Nobody else is!"

"Why not? Why not you?" He wasn't the leader I envisioned for mutantkind, but who was to say my vision was the right one? "If you use the wisdom you show in raising your daughter, and show the world the sort of people mutants truly are—."

A superhero walked in, wearing black and purple. He had a bow and a quiver of arrows slung across his back. It was the Avenger calling himself 'Hawkeye'. He was supposed to be dead.

Doctor Strange was following him. He was there in the flesh, having sent his astral self back to his body, and then teleporting in by magic. "Look who turned up." The Sorcerer Supreme was smiling. "Wanda didn't kill him—she tucked him into a pocket dimension. Once the pressure on her brain was eased—it turned inside out, so to speak."

"I'm like that bad penny." The Avenger grinned. "I always turn up. Is that coffee?"

"Yes." Quicksilver said. "Help yourself. You too, Doctor."

"Thank you." Both men fixed themselves mugs—Hawkeye taking his, and saying that he was going to let the other Avengers know he was all right, he left.

Doctor Strange sat down. His smile turned wry. "That was one of the more humbling experiences of my life—when you saw, and pointed out, what I should have seen from the moment I entered. And I was a neurosurgeon…How did you see, when I did not?"

"I think it was a matter of perspective. I've sometimes thought (only every waking moment, but I didn't say that!) that having powers, and being a superhero, skews people's thinking—you went in there looking to save the world, and you were concentrating on that."

"Whereas you went in there to save one woman—and you were concentrating on that." At my look of surprise, Doctor Strange nodded. "I spoke to the Silver Surfer. He told me that Victor was going to kill her—and he has the mystic knowledge to do so permanently—to bar her soul from returning to this plane."

I—hadn't known that… "When you save one person, you save the entire world. Every single person on this earth is the world—to themselves, and those who love them."

Several mutants I recognized poked their heads around the kitchen door. "What the hell happened?" demanded Wolverine. "We were attacking, and then—the opposition vanished. What gives?"

Doctor Strange explained. Partway through, Magneto arrived, and had to be filled in on things. Victor entered and stood quietly.

"I see." Magneto said. "I—don't know what to say, other than to apologize—no, to beg your forgiveness—for my children, for what they did, for what I have done—and most especially for your forgiveness, Lady Doom. I am most grateful for what you have done for my child—and you, also, Victor. You have been a far greater man than I could have, given the same circumstances."

"Fortunately, that was not hard." Victor could not resist rubbing it in.

Magneto drew in breath sharply. "I deserved that." he said.

"For my part," I said. "If you were to translate that feeling into a friendly welcome and active cooperation with the people from Latveria who will be arriving in a few days, to help turn Genosha into the place your children dream it could be—I will be well satisfied."

"I will try. I will do more than try—I will do it." The Master of Magnetism held out his hand, first to me—and then, albeit reluctantly, to Victor who took it.

"I fear we will not have the pleasure of seeing you at the wedding." Victor said. "Your daughter's health must come first. I recommend you call in Doctor Ella di Uzzano—she is an excellent surgeon." That was the name of my lawyer, Robert Angevin's, wife, I recalled.

"Yes, she has an excellent reputation." Doctor Strange added. "Are you ready, Victor?"

"Yes. My dear, it is time to go home. You need not fear that we have been missed—as we will be returning to the exact moment and circumstances when we 'left'. Doctor Strange has been holding off the full reversion."

TBC….


	65. Chapter 65

When Victor said 'exact moment and circumstances', he meant exact moment and circumstances. I found myself back at the horse farm with Boris, dressed just as I was when the flash of light that signaled 'the end of the world as we know it' occurred.

Boris was still talking. "I don't know what all went on in America—but he wasn't happy. He liked his classes and his work, but outside of that—the girls wouldn't leave him alone, the other lads didn't care for that, or for him being a foreigner and so much smarter than the most of them—he said his English was better than some of theirs, which was a crime. Mostly what I got was that he was lonely—Oh. Good afternoon. Master. What brings you out here?"

Victor must have teleported in order to get to the horse farm as quickly as he did. "I decided I wanted to be here when you gave Joviana her present. That was my purpose. Have you given it to her yet?"

"No—but before I do, since you're here, I have yours." Boris reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a slim package wrapped in ordinary grocery-bag brown paper and tied with string. Boris was not the sort of person who would bother with expensive fancy paper or ribbons.

Victor reached out and took it, untied the string (which Boris retrieved and coiled up, tucking it back into his pocket), and undid the paper.

It was a framed photograph. The frame was an inexpensive tourist-shop item, painted scarlet and turquoise with touches of cobalt, and the photo in it was battered, and could have used digital re-imaging, but I knew, looking at it, and at Victor's eyes, that it would occupy a prominent place among his keepsakes, just as it was, for the sake of the giver—and for what it was, in and of itself.

It was a photograph of Cynthia and Werner on their wedding day. Cynthia was wearing traditional Rom garb, and Werner was in a stiff, new-looking black suit, which fit rather poorly. It didn't matter. The happiness and the love that radiated from them shone through all the trappings—that love in which they had made their only child. Cynthia made an incandescently beautiful bride, and the goofy, happy, proud grin on Werner's face said it all.

It was bittersweet, looking at their faces, knowing what would follow—her dangerous trafficking in demonology, his depression, the Baron with the dying wife, and the lightning blizzard—but then, all happiness is bittersweet, if it is honest, because there is the inescapable knowledge that one day, it will be otherwise.

But right there, right then, was where we were, in the now—and Victor raised his head to say—a little hoarsely?—"Thank you. I have no recollection of ever seeing a wedding photograph of them—ever. I am very glad to have this."

"I was saving it for you—for the right occasion. I'd been hoping I would live to see you married—now I can only hope I'll live to see a child of yours." Boris said.

Victor glanced at me. We were getting very, very good at non-verbal communication. His glance asked, 'Should I tell him?'

I shook my head almost imperceptibly. 'No. Don't tell him about the baby yet.' Better to wait until a month had passed—after the honeymoon, and after a positive result on a pregnancy test—fewer awkward questions all round.

"I have every hope you will live to hold my firstborn…Father." Victor replied.

My heart nearly burst with love for Victor at that moment. Yes. Yes!

Boris' jaw dropped. He looked from Victor to me and back again. "Did you just—? Did you—?" As far as Boris knew, I had been no more than ten meters away from him for the past hour—he knew I had not made any calls or sent any messages. That Victor should have called him 'Father' had to seem like nothing less than a spontaneous miracle.

It's good to get things that you want. It's better still if you are good enough, and wise enough, to want the things that you need…

Boris had to employ his handkerchief again, making it seem as though he were just wiping his face. "Well!" he said. "Well! Thank you—son. Now, Daughter, as for your present—they're right here." He reached back and patted the neck of the friendly mare, his face beaming with pride.

Oh, no. He was making me a present of a horse—of more than one horse.

He continued. "She was the best I bred, until her little one was born— Gentle as a lamb, and smart as a dog." He pointed to her foal. "He's going to be a grand one, he is. A champion. And she's taken to you already."

"That is a princely gift indeed." commented Victor.

I was nervous around horses. I didn't really like them—but Boris was offering me the very best of everything he had, and I knew it. I would love them. I would learn to love them. "Oh, Boris—Thank you. Thank you so much—She's beautiful, and he's such a funny little darling, right now. I know what they mean to you—so I know what an honor you do me."

"That's all right." He said, waving off my thanks. "There's no one I would rather see have them. Tomorrow, they'll be down at the castle stable—along with all their tack and trappings."

"Thank you, Boris—thank you for everything."

"You're welcome." he said. "Any time you want to come on out here, you can. It's a peaceful place…"

We took a moment to listen to the wind.

Victor broke the silence to say, "I am afraid that I, at least, must return to the castle."

"Me, too. My mother and Bisitra are going to be at the castle in half an hour for dress fittings. I really ought to be there—since it's my dress that's to be fitted." I added my part.

"Then let's go home." Boris concluded.

And so we did.


	66. Never Thought My Day Would Come

"Whatever you do, don't cry on her. Don't cry on the gown. Don't cry anywhere near the gown. You do have tissues, don't you?" Bisitra warned my mother.

"You think I'm going to cry just because I see my daughter in a wedding dress? I'm not going to cry. Is she dressed yet?" Galina Florescu asked eagerly.

"Almost." said Ulrike, my 'personal stylist', twitching the front hem into position. She had returned from New York with my luggage and a question—did I mind if her title was personal stylist? I told her it was fine with me. "Madame Bisitra, this design is inspired."

"Thank you," replied Bisitra, "but really, it's not. It's simple because I couldn't manage anything else, and the fabrics do the rest. Even so, if I hadn't been making her clothing for years, I never could have managed to fit it properly."

"Well, you did a wonderful job." Ulrike concluded.

"Ow!" I said, as Bisitra jabbed me with a pin. I was standing on an ottoman in my dressing room so Bisitra could work on the closure at my waist.

"I'm sorry, my lady." Bisitra said. "Are you bleeding? Don't bleed."

"I'll try not to, if I can help it." I told her. "Mother? There's something in my saved mail that might interest you. The Daily Bugle sent a copy of the interview I did, so it could be approved before they went to the presses."

"Thank you, dear." I heard her cross the bedroom and sit down at my desk. "'Joviana Florescu, 25, the fiancée of Victor Von Doom, monarch of Latveria, is not what one would expect.'" She read aloud. "That's a nice picture of you—and Bisitra, she's wearing that green summer suit you made her, in that sateen. 'Yes, she is tall and slender, a striking beauty with the porcelain skin of an aristocrat from a past epoch—but along with the supermodel looks comes a supergenius brain.'"

"Laying it on rather thick, aren't they?" I asked. "Makes me wonder if Victor owns a chunk of the publication."

"You are entirely too cynical." Galina chided me. "'The young woman who soon will take on the name of Doom is disconcertingly intelligent, and has a good, if slightly wicked sense of humor. At the onset of the interview, she asked if the Daily Bugle wanted to know her views on the war over oil, the mutant question, or the hostilities between the Sudan and Wakanda, and accepted with rueful grace the reply that no, what the Bugle was interested in was wedding plans and the story of her engagement to the seemingly impassive world leader. I now regret not asking, as her reply would have been intriguing.' You would ask that, wouldn't you, Joviana?"

"You know I would." I called back.

"You have the shoes that you're going to wear? Good." Bisitra said, as Ulrike brought over the satin pumps I had decided on. I stepped off the ottoman into them.

"All right! You can come in now." Bisitra called to my mother. "But remember—no crying on the dress!"

"I'm telling you, I'm not going to cry." Galina's voice grew louder as she got closer to the dressing room door.

"That's what you think." Bisitra said, darkly. "I know mothers."

The door opened; my mother stood framed in the opening for a long moment that imprinted itself on my memory, a melting look of love, tenderness, and pride.

Then she burst into tears. "Oh, Joviana, my darling!"

Bisitra knew mothers, all right.

Once she recovered from her initial reaction to the sight of me in my ceremony gown, she walked around me in a circle, surveying my appearance and Bisitra's work with a critical eye. "I remember that a lot of the new dresses had colored sashes or ribbons—do you think you ought to add one? It looks so—plain at the waistline."

"No, Madame." Ulrike said. "The effect is so striking because it is so unadorned, except for the overdress itself. Adding anything would detract from that. The simplicity is what will have this gown talked about and written about—and copied."

"I still wonder if strapless might not have been more elegant." Galina fretted.

"No." I put my foot down, metaphorically, as I had when the subject had come up before. "I don't want the bishop to have a heart attack right in front of me. He looks overdue for one already. My arms will be bare, and that will be daring enough."

"Galina, don't you like it?" Bisitra asked pitifully.

"Yes, of course I do! It's beautiful; almost as beautiful as my daughter." My mother took my face in her hands.

"You would have to say that—you're my mother." I teased her. "Bisitra, I agree. I love it. I would choose this exact style even if I had six months—a year—to get ready."

"Thank you," Bisitra said, with relief and gratitude. "All I can think of is how much better it would have been—but it will be ready, God willing. Now, what about your hair? I brought a whole bolt of silk tulle veiling."

"I was thinking about an updo, something like my usual—." I began.

"No." said all three women simultaneously.

"No? Why not?" I asked, a little hurt.

"My lady--." Ulrike started to say.

"I've been trying to tell her for years," Galina put in, "but she gets huffy whenever I bring it up. Maybe you can tell her so she listens."

"I'll try, Madame. My lady, you have beautiful hair, but the way you style it is—too severe for your face. You have strong features, and you need to wear your hair a little looser, a little less controlled, to keep your face from looking… hard."

"You do come across as intimidating—until people get to know you." added Bisitra. "Whether you wear it at the nape of your neck or the top of your head, your hair looks like it was scraped into place—and you put so many pins in it that you bristle like a hedgehog."

"But if I don't, it comes apart. By lunchtime, I look like a bird's nest—a messy bird's nest—if I don't pin it in place."

"A bird's nest would be preferable." said Galina, the traitoress. "A bird's nest would be human and approachable."

"Ah!" I gasped. "I'm not approachable?"

"You don't come across as approachable." soothed Ulrike. "Do you know that American TV series, Frasier—and the one before it, Cheers? There was a character on those shows, called Lilith, who wore her hair the way you do. I've heard people mention the connection."

Lilith, the ice bitch. That was how I came across. I wanted to sit down and have a good cry immediately. "But I've worn my hair like this for years."

"It wasn't so bad when you were younger—when you still had some of the softness of baby fat." offered my mother.

"It goes frizzy when there's any humidity whatsoever." I said. "I don't like frizzy, messy hair on me. Plus, I wear it over my ears like this for a reason—my ears stick out."

"The frizzing can be fixed with the right styling product." Ulrike said. "I got some anti-frizz samples when I was touring Manhattan. I stopped in several stores..."

"No applying anything while she's in the dress!" Bisitra was going to develop an ulcer with worrying about that gown.

"I don't like sprays, mousses or gels." I said. "I hate it when my hair's all stiff and hard."

"The kinds I got won't do that—ones with a bit of silicone in them."

I was undergoing a hair intervention. I felt miffed—then my eye fell on the Rosetti Proserpine. Jane Morris, and her soft cloud of hair…and remembered how people responded to me when it was messy recently—I had pulled it to pieces before applying for Latverian citizenship, and the Doombot responded by comparing me to that portrait. I had shaken it loose before I went in to talk to Wanda, and it had still been loose when I talked to Pietro in the kitchen. Maybe they had a point.

Victor had never expressed any opinion about my hair, but he had never expressed any opinion about my appearance, except to comment on how elegant I looked, once or twice.

"How should I be wearing it?" I asked.

Ulrike let out her breath. "Madame Bisitra, can she sit down in the dress? I have a steamer on hand, just in case."

"About time!" my mother said.

"She can sit--but carefully. And no styling products!" Bisitra warned us.

"My lady, if it will please you to sit down at your dressing table—." I started to cross the room.

"Wait!" That was Bisitra again. "You need to practice walking in that gown. Every time you take a step, kick the hem forward just a little, or you'll be treading on it and ripping out the stitches."

I walked very carefully, kicking the hem as I was told, and sat. Ulrike began pulling out hair pins, and then she brushed it out.

"I'll bet brushing it when she was a child was a chore. That natural wave, and as thick as it is!" Bisitra commented.

"Actually, no." Galina Florescu remembered. "When she was little, it was straight as string, and not even half as thick. When she had to have chemotherapy, of course it all fell out, and when it grew back—it was like this." That was a nice piece of unconscious rationalization on her part—the first Joviana Florescu and I did not look very much alike.

"Chemotherapy?" Ulrike paused in her work.

"That's right. Joviana had childhood leukemia."

"Oh, my lady!" Ulrike looked at me in the mirror, stricken.

"I recovered, as you can see." I told her.

"Of course you did—you're here today." She teased, twisted, coiled, and re-pinned my hair into a completely unfamiliar shape—a softer, looser style, low on my nape, with ear coverage.

"Will it stay?" I asked.

"All day, if need be." Answered Ulrike.

"I like it. That's more like the real Joviana!" Galina approved of it.

"My lady, do you have a hairpiece you plan to wear?" asked my personal stylist.

"Yes, I do. Mother—that grey case by your elbow, that's it."

She picked it up and opened it, saying, with approval, "Ah, how very appropriate."

Victor, Boris and I had returned to the castle to find the Burgomaster of Doomstadt and a small delegation waiting to present me with a wedding gift from the citizens of the city, which turned out to be yet another mind-boggling piece of jewelry.

It was made to look like four stalks of wheat with ripe seed-heads on them—in gold, with diamond grains of wheat. Made in a U-shape, and meant to be worn like a Roman emperor's laurel wreath, open in the front and closed in the back, the wheat-ears came up to my temples, two on each side, bunched together.

The reason my mother had said it was so appropriate went back to a Latverian wedding tradition, just as the 'old, new borrowed, blue' was traditional in English speaking countries. Latverian brides wore wreaths of wheat in their hair to symbolize or bestow fertility—which in my case was either very appropriate or superfluous, considering my condition, and the embryonic daughter who might be thirty-two—or even sixty-four!—cells large by now. They grew so fast!

At least I knew what to do about this extravagant piece of jewelry, which had been purchased from the citizenry's collected funds—which was to keep it, but find out how much it cost, and then donate at least twice as much to some civic charity or project in the near future.

"I can attach a veil to that—wait a moment." Bisitra fetched her bolt of tulle, sent it unrolling down the length of the dressing room, and pinned it to the back of the wheat wreath. Then Ulrike slid it into place, and Galina burst into tears again.

"I know, I know—not near the dress. Joviana, dearest, I'll swear you haven't taken a good look at yourself yet. Come over to the three-way mirror—."

I went, carefully kicking the hem, as instructed. I looked, and saw, in front and on either side of me, the reflections multiplying and kaleidoscoping— a bride.

A bride who was beautiful.

A bride who was—me.

As so often happened at emotional moments, a line from a Tori Amos song sprang to my mind—'Never thought my day would come…'

TBC….


	67. Chapter 67

I almost burst into tears myself. I could not help but remember back to a day when I was fourteen, when I had stood outside a bridal shop, and looked in at a dress on a mannequin in the window.

The more discerning eye of the woman I was now could look at the memory and tell that the design was fussy and awkward, the fabric a shiny, cheap synthetic—but to the fourteen-year-old me it was the stuff of fairytales. I had looked at it, and my heart filled up with bleak despair, because I knew—just as surely as water flowed downhill and milk went bad when left out on the kitchen counter—I would never get married, because no one would ever love me.

How I wished I could go back in time to hug that girl, in her shabby, baggy clothes, and tell her that once she got through the bad times, there would be a wonderful future ahead for her—that she would be loved, that she would be happy…

"Oh, not you, too!" Bisitra swooped in to the rescue with a handful of tissues, to prevent me from dripping tears on The Dress.

After my bridal committee helped me choose which set of jewelry went best with that dress, Bisitra extricated me from it, and we began all over again with the reception gown, which was much simpler and less fraught with emotion. Then Ulrike wanted to talk make-up, in which area I was judged to have better instincts than I did with hair.

Finally we were done, and could relax in the sitting area of my bedroom and have afternoon tea. The kitchens sent it up so fast the scones were still piping hot—they were aiming to impress. Ulrike refused to join us—she said it wasn't proper—until I told her it was a direct order from me. Then she sat down and accepted a cup and a plate of goodies, and enjoyed herself as much as any of the rest of us.

As our teapot grew empty and our stomachs full, I set down my cup and saucer and sat up. "I have something to say. There are two things I have to tell the three of you. I couldn't keep them a secret from you even if I wanted to.

"First—when we were in New York, I met a woman there who's a clothing designer—Janet Van Dyne. She wants me to attend one of her fashion shows in a few weeks, wearing her designs. Not as a model, just as another attendee. I told her I would, so she's sending me some clothing. It's because we're going to have the same initials—J. V. D. She wants to play on that. I think there may be several outfits. Please don't be offended, Bisitra. I would never—."

"Offended? No, I'm relieved!" she said. "I was wondering what I was going to do if you expected me to make all your clothes. You have no idea how many outfits you're going to need—and how many pieces you'll only wear once.

"This past week nearly finished me, it truly did. Of course I'll still make things for you, and of course for you, too, Galina—but I have other women who depend on me, and I don't want to give up them, either. I was thinking about what I would have to do to keep up—and all I could think was I would have to get another workshop, and these days, all the Latverian girls are busy getting college degrees. I'd have to hire in Bulgarians on work permits. No, it's much better this way. I'm glad about it."

Well, people didn't always react the way I thought they would. I was happy she wasn't offended.

"Janet Van Dyne is quite an important designer." commented Ulrike. "This is so exciting! Do you know when the garments will be delivered?"

"Not in the least. I don't even know if they'll be sent here or to the New York embassy. Now, the second thing I have to tell you is—Mother, remember what you asked me when I told you I was marrying Victor? You asked whether I knew if he wanted children."

"Yes, I remember." she said, eagerly. "You said you didn't know."

"I didn't at the time. But we have talked about it since then—and the upshot of it is, he does, and we're going to start trying right away—I know I'm only twenty-five, and there's plenty of time, but rather than wait ten years until time is running out…" I let it trail off there.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's a very good decision!" My mother had to put down her cup and saucer and lean over to give me a hug. "I'm so glad to hear you say that!"

"My lady, I am very glad to hear this. A success won't just be good news for you—but for the whole country. " said Ulrike.

"This only confirms what I said before—I'm glad I won't be the only one making your clothing. My approach to maternity clothing is—I'm afraid you'd find it dowdy. That's what my regular customers have said, at least." Bisitra sat up. "But—not only as a subject, but someone who has known you as a friend and a client for so long—I wish you an easy success. I'm very happy to hear this too."

"Thank you." Now the news that would come in about a month—that I had missed a period and had a pregnancy test— would be no surprise. "I leave it up to your discretion as to who you share this with—you will have heard it from me. My last period was last week." The timing on this pregnancy was going to be awfully fine. People were going to have fun calculating whether she was conceived before or after Victor and I were married. It could be argued either way…and very likely would be.

"Speaking of sharing," said Galina, "I never finished reading that article from the Daily Bugle. I'd like to print it out and take it with me. May I—?"

"Of course." I gestured in the direction of my desk.

She went over and clicked a few times; I heard the printer fire up. Then she made a funny little noise. "This is odd—a news story from America just popped up. 'Pennsylvania Woman Claims Doom's Fiancée As Missing Daughter'. I beg to differ! 'Rhonda Mckenna, age forty-three, claims Joviana Florescu is actually her daughter—.'"

"What?" I asked, trying to sound startled but amused.

" 'who has been missing since 2003.' Why would this have popped up?" She looked over at me.

"I have a search program looking for mentions of my name on line, I'm embarrassed to admit." I said. Almost true—it looked for mentions of my birthmother's name. "What does it say? Poor woman—she must be mentally ill." I went over to the computer, and looked over her shoulder.

"Not much—there are some photos." There was my birthmother. She did not look well in that photo—she looked puffy around the face, and her eyes were too bright. Something twisted in me at the very sight of her, but I did not let that show.

There was also an old picture of me, when I was at my worst. Overweight, acne, short, frizzed-out hair—heavy make-up—the semi-Gothic colors that were in about ten years ago, like bruises and dried blood. I still had that Tori Amos T-shirt, but it was only good for a rag these days. Next to it was a picture of the new me—the same one that went with the Bugle article. I would not have recognized us as the same person, had I not known.

"I have to say, my lady, I don't see why she would imagine you were her daughter. You look nothing like her." Ulrike said, joining us.

"The funny thing is, Joviana did look a bit like that girl, when she first came back from America. She was a bit overweight then, but she lost it when she got away from the land of junk food." Galina said, her brow furrowed.

"What are you going to do about it?' Bisitra asked.

"Do?" I shrugged. "Nothing much, I suppose. Give the public relations people a recent photograph of the two of us together, and tell them to tell the world I have a mother, and she's alive and well and lives in Doomstadt. Does it require more than that?"

"I suppose not." Bisitra conceded. "I suppose things like this will happen—didn't some boy light himself on fire to be like the Human Torch?"

"Yes—I remember that. It was tragic." said Galina. "I feel for her, though. It's terrible to lose a child under any circumstances—but to have her just disappear—and not know what happened…Still, to focus on you—I suppose things like that will happen when you're in the public eye, as you are."

"I suppose," I agreed, noncommittally. "I'll tell Victor about it—he may have some experience in these matters."

"That's a good idea." my mother said. I was not going to stop thinking of Galina, gentle, sane, loving Galina as my mother—I wasn't.

But the specter of the other fluttered around the edges of this happy new life…

The party broke up; several footmen assisted Bisitra in carrying everything back to her car—the garment bag with the ceremony gown took two of them to carry to her satisfaction. She promised she would be back the next day with everything finished. The day after was the wedding—provided the world as we knew it didn't come to an end again.

Galina took the printout of the Bugle article and went home as well. I expected she would soon be on the phone with various friends, reading parts of it to them over the phone—and perhaps hinting that a grandchild was in the planning stages. Ulrike said she was going to the castle laundry and see about some of my things—I suspected she would soon be dropping hints as well.

I went to find Victor—and, as I cut through the throne room to get to the cyborg labs, instead I ran into a man who looked like Leonard Nimoy as Spock, circa 1967— haircut, pointy ears and all—wearing tiny little green-and-gold Speedo swim trunks—if you could call them trunks—and who had little wings on his ankles. Mind you, he was better built than Nimoy…

It was the Submariner—otherwise known as Prince Namor of Atlantis. Curiously enough, like Spock, he was half one species—Homo Sapiens, on his father's side—and half another Homo Atlantsis, on his mother's. His mother had been a Princess of Atlantis, his father, a sea captain.

He was another one of those heroes who has just about enough brains to move all of his muscles around. He was also known for having been in love with Susan Storm Richards for years—and now he was staring at me.

TBC….those dreaded letters…


	68. Chapter 68

"Prince Namor—Welcome." I said. "I'm Joviana. Are you simply here for the wedding, or have you come to confer with Victor?"

"As arid and barren as the dry land is, in comparison to my realm." Namor, said, staring like a man transfixed. "Yet it somehow brings the fairest flowers forth, and grants them mobility and voice. I am here for your wedding, but I wish it were not so—or, rather, that it was I who you pledged to."

I had never had anyone fall in love with me at first sight before. I found it annoying—especially since it wasn't Namor's first sight of me. He had seen me –he had even spoken to me—and he had once called me a 'drylander cow'. That was before I lost the weight, however, and before Victor and I…were Victor and I. Partially I blamed my new hairstyle, but very likely it was simply that Namor was prone to falling in love with women who were already safely attached or otherwise unavailable.

He took a step toward me. "No." I said, firmly, leveling a finger at him. "Don't. Don't you dare fall in love with me, I won't have it. I don't like the ocean. I can't stand the beach. I like forests and fresh water and mountains. I know the ocean is far, far bigger than all the land masses combined, but I don't want to rule it with you. Please make yourself at home in the castle—flirt with the maids if you like—but as far as I am concerned—forget about it." I left, hurriedly, and found Victor in the cyborg labs.

The cyborg department was becoming quite important in terms of the Latverian economy—ever since their focus turned to medical applications. Artificial nerve fiber, microprocessors implanted in the brain that managed transmitters able broadcast signals to and from the brain past a broken back or neck, and restore sensation and mobility to the paralyzed—the world came to Latveria for these things. The department was working on artificial limbs that would behave and feel like the real thing.

Several scientists, technicians and assistants were scattered around the room, working on various experiments and projects. For some reason, the head geneticist was there, also, standing beside Victor, who was in the center of everything, studying an oversized monitor which had two different gene-patterns displayed on it. One was normal looking—the other was like nothing I had ever seen.

"Good evening, my dear." he said, his eyes moving over me—I could see his glance pause, noting the change in my hair.

"Good evening," I replied, after looking at my watch. It was evening—my sense of time was off-kilter, due to the whole 'end of the world as we know it' episode. What with the afternoon tea, it would be hours before I was ready for dinner—I felt a little guilty, knowing I had imposed it on Bisitra, Ulrike and my mother. I hoped it wouldn't spoil their appetites.

"What is it I'm looking at?" I asked, to distract myself from that.

"The results of a paternity test on a young man who claims I am his father." Victor told me. "His name is Victor Mancha. Not only am I not his father, his progenitor was nothing human. It was a reprogrammed Doombot who put that bit of misinformation into his head. I think it is most definitely time to account for every last Doombot, and to retire them from service."

"I agree." I said, looking at the screen. "Who was his father, then?"

"You wondered how Wanda could possibly have believed that she and the Vision—being an android—could have children together. Here is the answer—the robot Ultron, in his latest self-upgrade, devised a way to make his nanites behave like chromosomes—the result being this young man. He is a cyborg—an organic cyborg—living tissue and living metal at the same time."

The first version of Ultron was the creation of Dr. Hank Pym, my friend Janet's ex-husband—during one of his periodic bouts of mental illness. Consequently, the robot had a hatred of all human beings—which had grown into a hatred of all organic life. He spent a great deal of his time devising ways to destroy it. The situation was made all the more pathetic by the way Ultron kept trying to have interpersonal relationships.

"Who is his mother?" I asked. "She had to be human, did she not?"

"She is. Her name is Marianella Mancha. Her previous occupation was that of a 'drug mule'—one of those unfortunates who swallows pellets of heroin and cocaine prior to traveling to the United States, where she delivers them to the distributors. She did not bear the boy—she merely supplied the genetic material. He was gestated in a clone tank to full maturity—and consequently has the attendant psychological and emotional problems."

While the rest of the scientific community was struggling to clone sheep, cats and dogs, the costumed adventurer community had been cranking out perfect human clones for decades, and transcending the need for a host mother all the while. Clones that were subjected to accelerated development, so that the result was an adult rather than a baby, were prone to all sorts of identity crises, socialization issues, immature and inappropriate responses—because implanted memories did not take the place of real human interaction. The most famous example of this was Mister Sinister's clone of Jean Grey, named Madeleine Prior—who had predictably gone insane and betrayed the X-men.

"To what purpose did Ultron decided to have a son?" I asked.

"That the boy might be a sleeper agent, unbeknownst even to himself. As you might expect, the boy has powers. He is infiltrating the costumed adventurer community, befriending them and learning their secrets, their weaknesses. When Ultron decides the time is right, he will activate the hidden programming, and the boy will turn on his friends, wanting only to destroy them."

"Destroy them by killing them, you mean. It'll never work."

"No," Victor agreed. "It won't. But, come, my dear, why have you sought me out?"

"To tell you I was about to call on Robert Angevin's services, concerning the matter we discussed. I have a question, though—about cloning. Is accelerated growth an option, or a necessity?" I asked.

"It is a necessity unless one is prepared to wait two decades or more for a clone to grow up—or unless one has a time machine, and uses that to circumvent the problem." was Victor's answer.

"So one could remove a clone from the tank at any time after it was developed enough to live independently—like a baby being born?" I clarified.

"Absolutely." Victor gave me one of his 'I will stare the meaning out of you' looks. "Why?"

"The way in which Ultron used it—as an incubator, or gestator, for what was essentially a test-tube baby of a most unusual kind—his son. More and more women are choosing to defer motherhood until they need the services of a fertility specialist. Some wind up with quintuplets as a result—others face nine months of bed rest, or have to engage the services of an egg donor, a host mother or a surrogate mother. Suppose there was a clinic—a chain of clinics—which offered an alternative to all of that?

"I'm envisioning a bank of infant-sized clone tanks, intended to gestate an embryo for nine months in a perfectly safe environment—no possibility of miscarriage, no exposure to drugs, alcohol or cigarettes, a perfectly balanced nutrition feed, a simulated heartbeat playing constantly, as well as the parents' choice of language tapes, Mozart, or other music for optimal intellectual development. Fetal development constantly and non-invasively monitored by trained professionals—if pre-natal surgery is indicated, it is carried out—the result being a guaranteed healthy baby at the end of it all."

I became aware that the entire room had fallen silent, and everyone was staring at me. Feeling self-conscious, I said, "It's hardly a new idea. Robert Heinlein—and a dozen other science-fiction writers—have put forward the same concept. Nor am I the one who developed the technology." Had I a pin to drop, I would have done it, just to hear it echo.

Victor broke the silence. "My dear, were you a piece on a chess board, it could only be a knight—the only one able to leap over others, and the only one which moves at right angles to every other piece. I can already see that I will never have to conquer the world again. I will end up simply owing it. Make note of the day and time," he said to the room. "This is a moment at least as socially significant as the development of the oral contraceptive—if not more so."

He turned to the head geneticist. "Your department works intimately with the clone vats. You have one week to come up with the specifications and requirements for a gestator of the appropriate size which can be mass-produced."

"Yes, my lord," the doctor said. She was grinning widely.

"Now that we have changed the world yet again today, my dear, let us go together to call Mr. Angevin." Victor suggested. Together we left the lab.

It was difficult, but necessary, not to start talking about my birthmother the moment we were out in the hall. This was not something for ears other than ours. So I found something else to talk about. "Prince Namor has arrived."

"He's two days early." Victor commented. "Never mind—he is welcome."

"I think he means to be in love with me now, after having been in love with Sue for so long." I said.

"The devil he does!" Victor said, stung.

"It's all right—I told him I didn't want any of it. I'm not sure that will be enough—perhaps we should do a lot of gazing deeply into each others' eyes over dinner."

"I might speak at length on the flattering change you have made to your hair." Victor observed.

"You like it, then?" I reached up to touch it.

"Yes. Do I detect the hand of your maid at work? I have noticed some tendency toward this since she began doing your hair."

"Yes, at the behest of my mother and my dressmaker. The three of them ganged up on me."

We had reached the communication chamber. Once we had gone in, and the door was shut behind us, Victor said, "Now—tell me."

I did. While I was explaining, he brought up the article. "I see—the approach the news service is taking is one of guarded curiosity, not of scandal and outrage." he said. "This is the time to nip it in the bud."

With that, he placed the call to Robert Angevin.


	69. Chapter 69

A/N: This chapter is the beginning of something I knew was going to happen from very early on in the story. It is going to be disturbing.

-----------------------------------------------

Unfortunately, my attorney was unavailable. He wasn't at home, or at his office, or on-line. His cell phone was busy, so I left a message. I was suddenly very tired.

"I'm sure there are any number of wedding-related issues that people want to bring to my attention, but the way I feel right now, I just want to tell them to use their best judgment or talk to me tomorrow." I looked at Victor.

"Then do so. They wait upon you, not the other way around." he said. "I will see you at supper."

"Yes…" Except that I did not. I went back to my suite, lay down, and fell asleep.

I woke when my shoulder was shaken. "Wha…?" I asked, sleep-befuddled.

"Get up." It was Victor.

"Is it dinner time?" I took off my sleep mask.

"It is some hours past it." he replied.

"Oh. No one woke me." I sat up and slid my feet into my sandals.

"It does not matter. Come." He turned and walked toward the door, not looking to see if I was following or not.

Something seemed…off.

I scrambled off the day bed and hurried to catch up. "Where are we going?"

"Pennsylvania. To your grandmother's attic." was his cool reply, tossed over his shoulder.

"But—?" I followed him down the stairs.

"As you pointed out, I do have a time machine on the premises. It also operates over physical distances. We shall go back to the hour that you hid your proofs, wait for you to leave, and then go in after them. I recall that you said you chose a time when you knew your mother would not be there."

"Yes, but—the Watcher said they were still there." I had caught up with him, and matched him stride for stride.

"We will not remove them physically. A digital camera and a scanner will suffice to capture their content without disturbing the space-time continuum." We were descending to the level where the time machine was kept.

"Victor—what's wrong? You seem so—distant." I asked.

"Wrong?" he echoed me. "Nothing—or everything. I do not know which. But I will learn it before the morning comes."

"What happened?" I asked, quickening my pace. He was moving much faster than normal.

"While you napped, I received a most extraordinary communication. It was from Rhonda Mckenna—with the assistance of Malice. Malice sought to take control of Ms. Mckenna as she did you—with much the same result. The controller is become the controlled. Malice learned how to contact me from your mind. You three have much in common—strong wills, the ability to turn a situation to your advantage—and a propensity to manipulate and use others."

"Victor!" He had said it with such bitterness. We rounded a corner, and Victor waved the guard-bots aside. I wanted to throw up. She had done it. She had found a way to ruin my happiness. I always knew she would.

"I overlooked it. Even when I witnessed how you turned the impostor's head, how you so easily—and eagerly—swayed the emotions and impulses of his family—I did not ask myself whether you might not be doing to me what you did to them."

I felt as if my bones had turned to jelly. He knew. He knew.

"But perhaps I am being unfair. Perhaps she lies, and you have not been making a game of me—Perhaps what is in your grandmother's attic is not what she says it is." We were in the chamber with the time machine.

"No—Victor, let's talk about this first." I tried.

"No." He looked at me with eyes harder than the stone of the walls. "What was the date and time? I know you know it, with that memory of yours."

"Victor—please!" I stopped, and stayed where I was. "What did she tell you?"

"What you should have told me. I had wondered how I escaped the time-distortion. I meant to discuss it with you. You ought to have told me I had not."

"There hasn't been time!" I pleaded.

"There will be time enough now! You may have the rest of your life to tell me—and that may not be very long, if I do not like what I hear." He had been adjusting the settings on the time machine. Now he turned. Covering the floor with three long strides, he seized me by the hair. "Now. The date and time."

"February—19th. 2003. About 4 PM." I forced it out. He wasn't hurting me—yet. He walked back to the controls, forcing me to keep up with him or have him drag me.

"Victor—whatever she said—." I was growing desperate.

"She read some notes to me. Notes you made, and hid away with your proofs. 'I believe the key to changing the world lies in changing the Fantastic Four. It was their inception which made this world what it is—they are the foundations of the universe. I cannot influence them directly, so I must do so through a proxy, and obliquely. If I am right, any super villain would do--if handled correctly. But by far the best would be Doctor Doom—who is locked permanently into a losing battle with Reed Richards, and cannot see it. He is the most pathetic of them all.' Pathetic, am I?", he snarled, and flung me onto the platform.

"Victor—that was out of context!" I had written that over three years before. I had been so young, so callow, so naive. So stupid.

"Shut up. I warn you—I can be pushed too far. Now—." He pushed a button on the time machine's remote, and the world swirled around us.

TBC….


	70. Chapter 70

Tori had a song for this occasion, too: Me and a Gun. One night she accepted a ride home from a gig with a stranger, who had turned out to have a gun on him. She sang the song of that rape completely a capella, only words, no musical accompaniment at all—stark horror, fear for her life, yet filled with an intense desire to live.

'I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of here.' Barbados held no such significance to me, but I desperately wanted to live. Victor would not rape me, but he might—he really might kill me.

I had known what he was. I had known what he was capable of, and I had gotten involved with him anyway.

The landscape of my grandmother's back yard, on that afternoon in February, coalesced around us. I gagged, feeling the bile from my churning stomach rise to burn the back of my throat. Victor looked around and pulled me to my feet—by my arm, not my hair, and marched me to a cluster of trees that would screen us from the house and the street. My car was already parked in the driveway—my younger self was hiding my boxes, papers and notebooks in the attic.

I was shivering hard; it was a normal February for Pennsylvania, but I was wearing only a light summer dress and sandals.

"You are trembling, my dear." He said those last two words with such acid sarcasm I flinched. "You have cause to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid." I lied. "I'm freezing."

He looked at me a long moment before he unfastened his cloak and handed it to me. "I am weak." he said, self-loathing. "I know you to be false and still you move me. You insinuated yourself behind all of my defenses, you crept in and took hold on me. But I will root you out. I will overcome this weakness."

"If I am true, if what you think is not the truth—what then?" I asked, as I fastened the cape around me. I would have liked to let it fall to the ground, in defiance, but I was too cold.

"Then I shall go down on my knees and beg your forgiveness." He said, sardonically.

"That may not be enough to mend this." I told him.

"You keep up such an innocent façade. But when I have those notes—which you do not even deny you made—I will not be made a fool of," he warned me.

"Victor—those notes. My mother didn't read you all of them. She hates me. She wants to destroy my life, as she believes I ruined hers."

"Ah, yes. Your mother. When you told me of your life with her, you never told me about your subtle little revenges." he said.

"What revenges? I don't know what she may have told you, but remember—she's not sane, she's schizophrenic, she—." I was beginning to get shrill—I controlled it.

"You never told me how you stole from her wallet—how you put crushed sleeping pills in her coffee—how you lied to her. Do you deny these things?"

"No—. They were true, but the context—." I tried.

"Ha!" he said.

"I only did it because I had to!" I pleaded. "She never gave me any money for shoes—I could wear her cast-off clothing, but my feet grew too big for me to wear her shoes. When my old pair were falling apart, when the soles were thin as paper, then I would take the money for a new pair, only then. And I had to lie to her when she told me to tell the neighbors she would shoot them if they kept going through our trash. They weren't, it was raccoons. The sleeping pills—she would get so she didn't sleep for days, I was trying to help her."

"She said you would have plausible excuses." Victor replied.

"She is plausible, too." I whispered. "That was how she got me fired from so many jobs. Victor, can't you see this is like when Magneto kidnapped me, and you thought I had run away…"

"Do not call me that any longer. That was for when I thought your affection genuine." Victor snapped at me. "Tell me, how old am I? I had thought I was thirty-seven, but it seems I must be mistaken."

"What?" I asked, bewildered. That had come out of the blue, as far as I was concerned.

"You said that the time distortion which affects our reality began when Richards took the four of them through a cosmic storm—in 1961." He was furious.

"Yes."

"Forty-five years ago." Victor riposted.

"Yes." I said again.

"Yet I went to college with Reed Richards and Benjamin Grimm, years before the Fantastic Four was born." Victor continued, logically.

"I know." was all I could say.

"It follows I must be affected by the distortion—yet you said nothing of it to me. I, too, must have lived through those forty-five years—yet I am but little older than I was when it began. Somehow you neglected to tell me of this. "

"Because there wasn't time—and I wanted you to come to that realization on your own." I had thought he might realize it when we were talking to the Watcher, but he had not. "Or at least I wanted to have my proofs on hand when I broke that news to you."

"Your proofs!" he half-shouted. "You want to end the time-distortion, do you not?"

"Yes."

"When a man might live forever, never growing old or feeble, within it?" he asked, enraged. Yes, Victor would want to be immortal…

"It isn't truly living." I cast about for an analogy, and the best one that came to mind was from Terry Pratchett. "It's as if you took a glass of wine—only one glass—poured it into a bathtub, and then filled the tub with water. You'd have a lot more liquid, but the same amount of wine. In this case, your life is the wine, and time is the water. And there is a price that comes with it—you have no free will."

He stared at me—the stare that tried to pry out meaning. "Your proofs had better be phenomenal."

"They are—but not to a mind that goes in already closed." I replied.

"Quiet." He ordered me. "I believe you are leaving."

I knew the sound of that car—it was the one I bought with Janet's check, after her then-husband threw mine through the store window and demolished my cash register.

He waited until the sound of my car faded away before setting out across the yard for the house. I hurried after him, clutching his cloak around me. He opened the back door with a spell, and went in.

I paused on the step. I had not been back in my grandmother's house since the day I had hidden the proofs…Which would still be the truth, technically, but for me it had been over three years. It had cost me a great deal to cross that threshold the last time.

"Are you coming?" asked Victor from inside, impatient.

I could turn and run. I had no identification, true, and I was pregnant, but I still had that king's ransom emerald on my hand—except that I didn't. I had taken it off when I was trying on the dresses, lest it snag the fabric, and I hadn't put it back on. I was penniless…

I wouldn't have to go down to the basement, I told myself. I wouldn't have to relive my mother's attempt to kill me. I could just stick to the upper levels.

I braced myself, and went in.


	71. Chapter 71

We were standing in what had been my grandmother's kitchen, and was now a filthy, fetid mess, a breeding ground for cockroaches and mold. So many of my memories, good and bad, were in that place, the bad overlaying the good, trying to smother them out.

My mind was working frantically as I pointed to the hall and said—"Down there, and around the corner." What could I say that would keep him from killing me, if it came to that? 'Talk to Boris first, ask him if what I have done has been good or bad for you.' 'Did what I said in Hell support what you think of me now, or what you thought of me before?' 'Remember—I'm carrying your child!'

That last statement was going to be my last resort, because if it failed—I could not bear to think of that. I followed him down the narrow hall made narrower still by the boxes crowding it, and as we turned the corner and began up the stairs, I cleared my throat and asked, "Have you ever wondered why all the heroes in New York—there must be dozens of them—couldn't prevent the tragedy of 9/11?

"Why , when they've saved the world who knows how many times, couldn't they prevent two little planes from crashing into two buildings? Why they couldn't save the people in the towers? Just by flying or telekinetically moving the severed tops to a location where they could get out? Why they couldn't keep the towers from collapsing, or burning? Why were they powerless to save one single life? It wasn't simple incompetence."

"I cannot say that I have." Victor remarked dryly. "Where is the attic?"

"The only way to get to it is in the master bedroom." I pointed to the door. "They were unable to prevent 9/11 because some events—and some people are more real than others."

"I dislike the implication that I am , by extension, unreal. You will oblige me by staying quiet." I followed him into the bedroom, and found him looking at the closed hatch in the ceiling. He reached up and grasped the cord that operated the pull-down stairs, which unfolded with their familiar screeching and squealing, and a small shower of dust.

"They'll never hold your weight –not when you're in armor." I informed him.

"Will they not?" He set a foot on the lowest tread, shifted his weight onto it—and the board promptly cracked in two.

"The space up there isn't high enough for you to stand upright, even in the center. I have to stoop a little to keep from bumping my head. Unless you want to get out of your armor, you'll have to trust me." I told him.

"And if I get out of the armor, I will have to trust you. Go—get your proofs—but see you bring every scrap, or it will be the worse for you." I did not like that, but I went.

I began with the box of china—wrapped in the various newspaper pieces. Not just the one with Jean Grey/Phoenix's original obituary, but the others which I painstakingly assembled, one by one, telling of contradictions and impossibilities. Franklin Richards' birth announcement—from 1968. 1981—when Senator Kelly was attacked by the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. The first Daily Bugle with a photograph of Spiderman—1962. It had been taken by Peter Parker himself, on a timer. It had his by-line. And others—so many others.

I handed it to him and went back up. Next came the box with the prizes from my spree of burglaries and breaking-and entering—the ledger from the stonemason showing the original order for Jean Grey's headstone. The photograph showing Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, the Submariner, and Captain America jointly being decorated for their service in World War Two. A copy of Frank Castle's — he was the Punisher— service records for Viet Nam. That one was speculative on my part—he was young enough to have served in Viet Nam and still be running around playing vigilante-superhero with a gun today. Some day he wouldn't be. And other items…

I passed that to Victor, who was unwrapping the china—a very ugly set of stoneware from the seventies with clumsy daylilies painted on it—, and returned to the attic. There was more up here than just my proofs, of course. The rocking horse that had carried both my father and me. Great-Grandma Hildarose's wedding dress. An old, old crazy quilt, embroidered every which way. A box of delicate Christmas tree ornaments. This was my past, going back for generations…

I wanted to take my time, but I couldn't. Instead, I went to the unfinished part of the attic, and edged my way along the two-by-four beams to the spot where I had hidden the box, the one I had bought at the yard sale, with my notes, and the other things.

I carried it down the stairs, and said to Victor, who was looking at the photo of Reed Richards and the others with a predictably hostile expression in his eyes, "The living room shouldn't be too bad, if I remember right. There's better light, and we can sit down."

"That is all?" he asked.

"Yes." I replied.

"Upon your word?" he pressed, adding, "For whatever that may be worth."

"Upon my given word." I was not going to comment on that last bit.

Two minutes later, he threw the handful of comic books down on the coffee table, saying, "So these are your proofs—this juvenile trash, the products of Richards' publicity machine!"

He was referring to the Fantastic Four comic books, which were licensed by the Four, and, along with the action figures, the t-shirts, etc, contributed substantially to their operating expenses.

"No." I gathered them up again. "Look again. You never gave them permission to use your name or image in their comics, and if they went ahead and put you in them, you would have leveled the publisher's building to the bare rock underneath. And these others—the X-Men don't have a comic book deal. Nor does the Hulk, or Spiderman, or Thor…."

He took them from me, and started to read them in total silence—the eye of the storm. I let him, and looked through the ones he wasn't reading. He had taken off his gloves, the better to handle the older books, the ones that were brittle and yellowing, from the days before they realized that people would want to keep them for years, that some of those who loved them when they were young would keep on loving them.

"At first I thought what anybody would," I said, just to fill the heavy silence. "That they couldn't be for real—that they were faked up somehow. But I did some research, and found that all the people who worked on them—all the writers and artists—were real. They just hadn't produced these books—not in this universe. Somehow—I don't know if the yard sale was in another universe, and I wandered into it—or if the box itself wound up in ours—it wound up here, and in my possession.

"At first I thought that some of the comic books simply happened to mirror what went on in our reality—but then things started happening here that followed the stories in the books exactly. Like when Galactus collapsed in New York, and Reed Richards saved his life with some form of cosmic dialysis. Then I knew that the books didn't just record what was happening—they dictated it. Every member of the costumed adventurer community was no more able to control what they did or said than a train is capable of being steered as an automobile is steered. It's a form of predestination worse than Calvinism—because whether you're saved or damned, at least with Calvinism, once you're dead, you're dead. You don't have to come back and go through it all over and over again."

I leaned over to see what Victor was reading—it was the infamous 'Squirrel Girl' feature, in which a teenage girl with the ability to command squirrels has them swarm all over him and nibble his armor until its functions break down. "This never happened." he said with disgust.

"It was probably a Doombot." I soothed him.

He flung it down, and sprang to his feet. "The worst of these make me out to be a buffoon, a caricature, a stock villain from melodrama—posturing and mouthing clichéd dialog. The best leave me some modicum of dignity—but always, I am left to shake my fist and bellow 'Richards' ineffectually at the sky—."

"As you are defeated over and over again. That's the first Law of Heroics." I interrupted, speaking softly and low-pitched, as I usually did. "'The Hero always wins—even if he or she has to die in the process.' Richards was created first, to be the hero. You came afterwards, to be the villain. While our universe is linked slavishly to the universe where the Marvel Entertainment Group prints these stories—you—and not only you, but every member of the costumed adventurer community—might imagine you had free will, that you were making your own decisions, and that you stood a chance of winning—when you were no more free than a water balloon in the grip of gravity.

"Everything I have planned —everything I have done—every waking hour of my life for more than three years, has been done with the goal of severing the link between the universes—to set you, and everyone else, free." I folded my hands, and looked him in the eyes,

He stared at me for a very long moment. At least it seemed long. Then he held out his hand, palm up and open. "Your notes." he demanded.

TBC...


	72. Chapter 72

A/N: This chapter consists of Joviana's notes.

* * *

Knowing what I know—that this reality is fiction somewhere else—I have to wonder about every story I ever read—every movie I ever saw, every TV show. Are they real somewhere else?

In Peter Pan, when Tinkerbelle is dying of poison that was meant for Peter, the writer appeals directly to all the children who are reading it, or having it read to them, to clap their hands, if they believe in fairies, and save her life.

How many generations of children have beaten their hands together until they stung, believing in their hearts it was true, afraid for poor Tink—even though they knew it was only a story? Five generations—six? Seven?

Is Tinkerbelle saved only once—or is she saved anew every time a child claps for her?

If she has to live it over and over again, does each time seem to her as if it were the first time, or is she aware that she will be saved at the very last moment?

And fairy tales—Sleeping Beauty, for example, used to be a much darker tale. When Prince Charming bestows a chaste kiss on her lips to wake her, is he aware that in the old, old versions of the tale, he took advantage of her in her sleep, raping her and leaving her pregnant with twins? Even that does not wake her. She gives birth to them in her sleep, and not until one of them, crawling over her in search of milk, sucks the needle out of her finger, does she wake.

Does he miss grunting out his lust between her thighs, as she keeps on dreaming?

Does Thor, who was a god, and is now just another superhero, miss his ribald, bloody, sweaty carousing, as cleaned up and antiseptic as he is now? Does he even remember it? Is he happy, or does he feel a vague sense of loss?

I don't understand how or why. All I can do is look at the results. The world I live in has artificial conditions imposed on it. There are superheroes here because somewhere else, a group of artists and writers made them up. Does that make Jack Kirby and Stan Lee God(s)? Where is God in this, anyway?

That's why Janet took that serum with those Pym particles in it, and became the Wasp.

And it gets weirder. Inside the costumed adventurer community, time distorts, because comic books are only published once a month—maybe every two weeks. Perhaps it's also because of the audience for whom these are intended—time has to distort to keep the superheroes from growing old. Nobody in our reality notices.

It isn't the wonderful thing people might imagine it would be—because horrible things happen to the people inside the community— rape, torture, death, insanity, mental agony—over and over again, and they have no way out, no choice but to speak the lines given them, not aware they have no free will, not knowing there is no such thing as chance.

Outside it, people are born, live and die normally—except for the ones who are in close contact with an adventurer on a regular basis—the girlfriend, the mother, the grouchy comic relief boss. They're caught in it, too.

Inside the costumed adventurer community, there are all sorts of technological advances—cars that fly, cold-fusion, cloning that turns out perfect adult specimens in weeks, artificial intelligence that rivals the human.

Outside, we still get by with gasoline powered clunkers, with fossil fuels that pollute, computers that crash on a daily, if not hourly, basis, and the one sheep that has been cloned started off as a lamb like any other, but died of old age while she was still abnormally young, because something in her cells knew what age the cell donor was supposed to be.

It's like an egg. Our world is all one world, like an egg is all one unit, but the yolk and white are separated by a transparent membrane. Here, the adventurer community is separated from the rest of reality, and the two just don't mix, unless something gets broken. Property damage in the millions, and nobody thinks it's an outrage.

From what I have gleaned in the letter pages and the editorials of these comics, this is deliberate. The world in which ordinary people live is meant to correspond with their reality—that's why we don't share in the advances of Tony Stark and Reed Richards. That's why the heroes weren't able to stop 9/11 from happening.

This is wrong. There shouldn't be one set of natural laws for one group of people, and a different one for another. Just because the Marvel creators' world is enduring global warming, depletion of fossil fuels, terrorism, and more—doesn't mean we should have to endure it, too—when the solutions are so close that they can be seen, if not touched.

But what am I going to do about it?

If I can make this world stop following the creator's world… If it doesn't resemble their reality or their stories, then we would be free.

I have to come with a way of getting technology over to my side of things, and—make them get real. Make them stop acting—and reacting—like superheroes and super villains.

How do I do that?

Go to Reed Richards and tell him he's really a fictional character, and if he wants to be real he has to give up being a superhero?

He'd just love that. Coming from me— the fat, plain, awkward, over-tall underachiever. That should be good for a laugh.

And, while I'm at it, tell him he needs to stop Saving The World, and focus instead on saving the planet, before it undergoes complete environmental destruction?

He'd just say he's already doing his bit for the planet, just read the latest issue of Popular Science.

Even if that didn't sound insane, he's a hero. The deck is stacked in his favor. He has to be getting some kind of positive reinforcement out of things as they are.

I suppose I could call Janet and apologize to her, and wheedle her into giving me a job—maybe as a personal assistant—. No, more likely I'd wind up helping to clean up the Avengers' mansion.

Besides, I remember Wonder Woman had a female sidekick—not a hero, but an ordinary girl, named Etta Candy. Even her name was a joke. She was plain, chubby, and clumsy, always getting into trouble and having to be rescued, always falling in love with the wrong men. That would cut just too close to home. I refuse to become Janet's Etta Candy. I won't degrade myself like that. It would make me sick.

No, convincing a hero won't work. If they had to leave off being costumed adventurers, then nobody would cheer them just for crossing the street. They would have to get real jobs, pay bills and wash dishes, deal with going to the dentist and doing their taxes. They would be just like everybody else.

I need to go over to the other camp—the super villains. They're the ones who would want things to be different, because the way the world works now, they always lose.

I could come up with a whole book of observations on how things always happen in certain ways—like how a rescue always comes in the nick of time, and that the hero always wins. Like the law of gravity…

I am going to compile enough inside information on the heroes—nothing harmful, but juicy stuff---and then I shall peddle it to all the super villains—only the major players, no two-bit wanna-bes— I can talk into seeing me.

My price will be—a job. Working for them.

Another question—where do I start?

I believe the key to changing the world lies in changing the Fantastic Four. It was their inception which made this world what it is—they are the foundations of the universe.

I cannot influence them directly, so I must do so through a proxy, and obliquely.

If I am right, any super villain would do--if handled correctly. But by far the best would be Doctor Doom—who is locked permanently into a losing battle with Reed Richards, and cannot see it. He is the most pathetic of them all—the most pathetic, because of all of them, he is the most human, with both good qualities and bad. He is vain, proud, stubborn, resentful, inclined to be vicious--.

Yet there is an innate nobility about him which shines through all of that. It has nothing to do with heredity, and everything to do with who he is as an individual—his history, the hardships he has endured, the struggle to climb out of poverty, powerlessness and obscurity, to become a honorable man, a capable administrator, and a good leader. He is a great man, and if he weren't trapped in this mess, like the lion of Aesop's fable was caught in the hunter's net, he would be greater still.

I admire him already—I would like very much to help—which would probably make him laugh. But it was a little mouse that freed Aesop's lion—by gnawing through the cords. Surely I can do at least as much for him.


	73. Chapter 73

Victor finished reading my notes, laid them on the coffee table, and looked at me. "The fact remains," he said, his tone quite serious, "that you did lie to me—sometimes directly and other times by omission—and that you used and manipulated me. That I will not tolerate—no matter how worthy your goal might be. Nevertheless—I am prepared to forgive you—with the understanding that from now on, you will be utterly open and candid. There must never be a recurrence of this."

The relief that flooded me was as great as the tension and fear that had preceded it. "Then you're not going to kill me." I said, feeling that strange, faraway sensation, the one I had felt after seeing my car take out my cash register only a meter in front of me, the feeling that meant I was slipping into clinical shock. When death passes so close, one cannot help but be touched by the wind of her passing.

"I would not have killed you in any event. I am not unmindful of your condition. I would have exiled you, instead—found you a secure and pleasant dwelling, and sent you there. We never again would have lived as husband and wife, of course."

I laughed, but not because anything was particularly funny. This was the shrill, brittle laughter of hysteria. "Who is to say we will live as husband and wife again now?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, my dear." He said it so normally, as if the events of the last hour and a half were no more than an afternoon drive down a bad road in the wrong direction that had left us bickering with each other.

"I knew what you were, and I got involved with you anyway, "I said, a little wildly. "I remember a study—where they asked a group of people what they feared about the opposite sex. The women said they were afraid men would rape them, beat them, and murder them. The men said they were afraid women would laugh at them. That is exactly the gap we're looking at here."

I was going to be direct, and tell him why I was upset. My perception is that men do not like to be expected to read a woman's mind about what is wrong. "I don't feel safe with you anymore. I don't know how I can feel safe with you again." I said, quelling my hysteria.

"Joviana, I regret—." Victor began, but his tone of voice was not apologetic—it was chilly.

"Please, Victor, let me finish. I believed you when you said we were married. I believed you when you took my side against my mother, the other night, when you diagnosed her schizophrenia. When you told me I had a right to be angry, that when my family left me alone with her, when I had to take care of her, it was wrong—I would have sworn I loved the very rumor of your name—but it was all an illusion. It pleased you to say we were married, just as it pleased you to cultivate my love for you and make it grow—and then it pleased you to drag me around by my hair, take my mother's part, and threaten to kill me.

"I thought you were on my side—just as I was on yours—but it seems to me as if the only side you have ever been on is the side of Victor Von Doom. How can I find my way back to feeling safe with you again?" I paused for breath.

"Joviana—."

"Just a little longer, please. You have all the power in this relationship—monetarily, physically, you command the whole country—I felt safe for as long as I believed you would never do anything like this. And now—for all I know, then next words out of your mouth are going to be, 'Already you try to manipulate me again'—when I'm doing my best to be honest and direct."

"I give you my word I will never do this again. All shall be as it was." he said, confident that it would be enough.

But it wasn't. "I would like to believe that, but when you said we were married—when we worked out that I would promise to obey and you would promise to respect—that was giving your word—and then you broke it." His head jerked at that, but I gave him no space in which to reply, and pressed on. "What happens the next time you have suspicions of me? Will you rationalize what you do by thinking to yourself, 'She is not who I believed her to be, so therefore I need have no compunction about breaking my word to her?'"

"Ah, yes. I am vain, proud, stubborn, resentful, and inclined to be vicious, am I not?" He was getting mad again.

"Yes. And I'm insecure, needy, a really annoying know-it-all, shy, and I have low self-esteem. These things temper our better qualities—they don't negate them."

"Is it now my turn to speak?" he asked.

I nodded, feeling very tired, crumpled, and small.

"Thank you. I regret the harsh words and somewhat rough handling. I had believed I was deceived in you. I am glad your offense turned out to be no worse—that I could forgive it. I will concede that my response to this matter was disproportionate to the wrongs you had committed—but you had indeed duped me. You did not deny it and you could not deny it." He pointed a finger at me, with emphasis.

"But I did you good, not harm." I said.

"And so I forgive you. As for what I said—Perceiving myself injured, I spoke to inflict injury in return. I said things I did not mean. What I said before of your mother, of your family—that was the truth."

"It isn't whether it was the truth or not. It is that my feeling of safety, of certainty, is shattered."

"Do you mean to leave me, since you cannot feel safe with me?" He asked.

"How can I?" I asked in return. "You have all the power. I suppose I could call on someone to help—the Fantastic Four, the Avengers—but that would ruin everything I have done so far. I want people to stop acting like superheroes and super villains, not call on them for it."

"Do you want to leave me?" he asked.

"That's a much better question. No. I don't want to. I love you. But I don't know how I can stay—when I know that my freedom, my peace of mind, my life—can be taken away from me at any moment, on a whim. That's like trying to build a house of broken glass on thin ice."

"What do you want of me? That I should grovel, kneel, beg your forgiveness?" He was sounding angrier.

"No. That wouldn't fix anything, nor would it give me any pleasure or satisfaction. I just want what I had before—the sure confidence that you loved me too well to turn on me." I replied, looking at the coffee table, at my mother's overflowing ashtray, at the television remote, and the open comic books, showing Doctor Doom, over and over, posing dramatically as he declared, in various wordings, that Doom's plan could not fail…

"Then what?"

"I don't know." I rubbed my forehead. "If I did, I would tell you."

It was at that moment that we heard a key in the lock. The door opened, and my mother came in, trying to balance several bags of groceries. She saw us, and dropped them as she yelled, "Who are you people? What are you doing in my house?"

Victor did not falter. "It is not your house. The owner of record is your daughter Rhonette McKenna—." That was something that had always bothered me. She didn't even give me my own name. Rhonette was the diminutive of Rhonda. It was as if she was saying that no matter what I did, I was just a reduced version of her. "and we are here by her invitation."

"I don't believe that! She may be a lazy bitch, but she wouldn't go—hey, you're that Doctor Destruction guy! What are you doing here?"

"My name." he said, "is Victor Von Doom. I do not care to carry on this conversation any longer." He pulled out a device that fired a cloud of tranquilizing vapor, aimed it, and pulled the trigger. My mother folded up slowly, and fell to the ground amid her groceries.

"She will be unconscious for about an hour. We had best return these items to their hiding places." he told me.

"What about photographing them and scanning them?" I asked. "We hadn't even started."

"It is already finished." He tapped a lens on his mask. "They are built in."

It was a near thing, but we managed it. Before we left, I hastily grabbed a few mementos—the Christmas tree ornaments from the attic, my ancient and threadbare teddy—and a chipped porcelain saucer with a green border—Pickles' dish. The last thing I did before we left was to check on my mother, to make sure she was all right. Her breathing was normal. I left it at that.

It was not necessary for us to go back outside to return to our proper place and time—all Victor had to do was press a few buttons on the remote, and we were back on the platform of the time machine, in the cellars of Castle Doom—with an awful lot of things to resolve.

TBC….


	74. Chapter 74

Victor and I stood for a long moment on the platform of the time machine in Castle Doom, simply looking at each other.

It was I who looked away first. I said, my voice sounding dully in my own ears, "I'm going upstairs to my suite now. I'd much rather that you did not join me." Then I took my box of ornaments and the other bits and pieces I had brought from my grandmother's house, stepped down off the platform and made for the door.

Victor brought me up short with a single word, "Wife!"

I turned and looked at him. "Am I?" I asked. "If you say so.", and I continued back upstairs without further delay or interruption.

I did not sleep. I lay awake for several hours. I heard no sign of Victor on his side of the wall, but then I never had, not in this suite. After a couple of hours I got up and tried to play a mindless little computer game. It didn't help. I tried reading and found I couldn't concentrate. About five-thirty in the morning, I gave up and took a shower. When I returned, my head swathed in a towel, I noticed immediately a difference; the connecting door to Victor's suite was open, wide open. I ignored it.

It might be that this was Victor's attempt to be more open himself. It might be that this was another test, to see if I would violate his instruction. He had said at the onset that I was not to enter his rooms without his express invitation. An open door was not precisely an invitation. I would wait until, or if, he ever specifically asked me in.

I called down for breakfast, but when it arrived, I had no appetite. I drank some juice and ate a few bites of crepe. When Ulrike, my personal stylist, arrived, she was quite surprised to find me up and about so early, and even more surprised that I was so somber.

"My lady?" she asked, concerned. "Is something the matter? You seem very low spirited this morning."

"I didn't sleep well." I said, truthfully. "Also, I have an unhappy duty this morning. I have some funerals to attend."

It was true. The two guards and the driver, who Malice had murdered, when I was abducted, were being laid to rest that morning. Ulrike helped me choose a calf length black dress and a lighter gray jacket. Once I had a wide brimmed hat, I was ready.

Victor attended, of course. He and I stood next to each other, said the formalities, and no more. It was a long and difficult morning. I knew I was just going through the motions, and it showed. Boris and my mother noticed the constraint between Victor and me, which just made it worse. I was sure that if I started crying, I just wouldn't stop, nor would I be able to keep it quiet, so I listened to the services, my head bowed in silent respect.

I know I spoke to the families. I said the sorts of things that one says at funerals, colored with my sure knowledge that they had died for me, and that their families knew it. Perhaps they would rather that I was dead and their loved ones alive. I wouldn't blame them.

Having to look at an 11-year-old girl whose mother -- there was always a female guard when a woman was being guarded -- had been murdered, just ripped my heart into shreds. Perhaps they thought the promises I made them were empty promises, but I resolved in my heart that they would not be.

My mother stopped me before she left, and looking anxiously up into my face, asked, "Darling, is there something wrong?"

"Victor and I had a disagreement," I told her. "It was about trust issues."

"Do you need to talk about it?" she asked.

"Not right now, Momma." I replied, feeling as though I was talking from some distant planet. "We have to work this out on our own."

She nodded, still looking concerned.

Talking to Boris about it however, was worse. His face scrunched up as he looked at me, "Child, what's the matter? All the light has gone out of your face."

I looked around to make sure no one else was in earshot. "Last night Victor came and woke me up. He believed -- it doesn't matter what he believed, but he said some horrible things -- he threatened to kill me. I believed him. Once he understood better, once he realized that not all what he thought was true, he said he regretted it, he said he would not have killed me, but I was so frightened. Now I'm wondering how I can work my way back to trusting him again."

"Oh, he shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have." said Boris concerned. "You're his wife now, he's got to treat you right." Boris was very upset. Perhaps he had believed, as I had, that everything would be all right now with Victor, that this would be a happy ending, and that like a book with a happy ending, it could be closed when finished. The reader could go on to the next book, secure in the knowledge that the happily ever after would go on without end.

"Do you want me to speak to him?" Boris asked.

"No," I replied. "Whether we work it out or not, this has to be between Victor and me."

After funerals, there were more wedding preparations. I said 'Yes' and 'No' and, 'All right,' when people asked me questions. I approved things, always, however, feeling as though I were somewhere very far away. Lunch came. I had no more appetite for that than I had for breakfast.

Afterward, I went down to the courtyard garden, and sat on the shady bench, near where the old roses were just coming into bloom. I listened to the fountain play with my eyes closed. I wasn't sleepy, but I felt tired.

I felt even more tired when I heard the voice of the Submariner say, "I cannot bear that you should look so tragic. It is clear you will be unhappy in this match -- unhappy with him. Come with me now. The ancient mechanism my people used to adapt themselves to life under the water still exists. But consent to be mine, and I shall protect you from everything."

I was cross enough to do something I had privately sworn never to do. "Her name is Marrina." I said. "Marrina Smallwood."

"Whose name?" Namor said, confused.

"The one you're looking for -- once you're done flirting, and you're ready to get serious, which is to say, get married. I believe she's with the Canadian hero team, Alpha Flight. She's very gentle, and a bit shy, especially around men. She hasn't any suitors. And she will be your wife -- when you're ready, that is."

"How do you know this?" Namor asked.

"That I can't tell you. But it's true." I knew it from the comic books, of course.

"Marrina," he said, as though tasting the name. "What does she look like? Is she dark and pale as winter, as you are, or golden as summer, as Susan Richards is?"

"Neither. Her beauty is not of the surface world. She has green hair, like sunlight reaching down to the blue waters warm them. Her eyes are enormous, shimmery and dark. They always look moist and somehow sad. Her people evolved eyes like that to catch the faintest hint of light in the vast ocean depths."

Namor was fascinated. I continued to expound on Marrina's beauty. "Her eyes may seem oversized to surface dwellers, but her beauty should not be judged by our standards. Her skin is a pale, pale yellow, because in order to see each other in the deeps, the people of her world make their own light. It's bioluminescence. Their skin is naturally luminous, like a firefly's signal."

"She brings light with her whereever she goes --." Namor mused. She was taking hold on his imagination. That was good. That meant his imagination was letting go of me. He looked at me. "The people of her world, you say? She is not of Earth?"

"She was born here," -- hatched actually, "and adopted by the Smallwoods. People are the Plodex. They have fantastically adaptive DNA and they're shape shifters. She's amphibious, just like you. This is most important -- she needs your help, because the Plodex only send out breeding pairs. Her intended mate, by some accident, is a monster. He must never be allowed to touch her."

"He will not." swore Namor, who sprang up as if to dash off right now to defend Marrina.

"There's more." Here was where I departed from the comic books. In other words, I was going to make it up. Who was to say it wouldn't turn out to be true?

"You need her. Not just as your partner in life and your wife, but because her DNA will save the Atlantiseans from extinction. Your birthrates have been dropping because of toxins in the water, from pollution, and the children born to you are prone to health and reproductive problems. The Plodex home-world's waters are naturally toxic by our standards, so Marrina is exceptionally resistant to toxins of all kinds. Her DNA, which is, as I said, extremely adaptive, means that she will not only be cross-fertile, but that she will pass on her resistance through her children to your entire race. In a few thousand years, all of Atlantis will remember her as the second Eve."

Namor's eyes were blazing. "I will go to her."

He turned as if to leave, but I asked, "Now? I think Victor would be offended. "

"After the wedding, then." Namor conceded.

"A word of advice? Don't tell her about the Eve of Atlantis angle -- not for some time. You wouldn't want her to think that's the only reason you're wooing her. She would feel used." -- And that was part of why Victor had been so angry and hurt. There was something I needed to say, which was that loving him, and marrying him, had nothing to do with my plans.

However, it seemed to me that it should wait until I was more certain there was going to be a future for us.

"Thank you," said Namor, heartily. "I will go and look up Alpha Flight online, immediately. Do you think golden pearls would suit her?" The best pearls were all trade goods from Atlantis. My necklace was a prime example of that.

"I think black pearls would suit her better -- they would match her eyes." I offered.

"Black pearls it shall be then – a crown of black pearls, for my queen."

Namor left, and I watched him go. There was more to it than that, of course. I had left out everything that applied to the Law of Female Disempowerment and the Law of Angst, which was that Marrina would go berserk, shape-shift into a Kraken, and wreak havoc, until Namor would have to kill her. I had every hope that the laws would cease to apply long before then. I felt a little better after that. It didn't last.

I did get through the rest of the afternoon somehow or other. Bisitra delivered the two dresses, and Ulrike steamed every wrinkle out of them. The actors arrived, the pastry chef asked me to come and have a look at the wedding cake, and I did, but it was not until the later afternoon, when I got a phone call from Robert Angevin, that I came alive once more.

* * *

A/N: I have been remiss in not telling you that you should go by the X-Men subcategory of Comics and check out Rosy The Cat's Don't Kid a Kidder. It is a fic set in the Minion universe, about the adventures of Margaret Kidder, budding telepath and reluctant student at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. 


	75. Chapter 75

"Ms. Florescu", Robert Angevin said when I answered, "You can be hard to get a hold of."

"I might say the same of you." I replied

"Yes, well -- I got your message. I have been working on it. It may be quarter to four in the afternoon where you are, but it's quarter to nine in the morning where I am. I'm in Pennsylvania, en route to a meeting with Rhonda McKenna and her attorney. I'm not driving and using the phone at the same time, I wouldn't do that. One of our cousins is driving. My wife, our son, and our other cousin are at the Pittsburgh airport, in preparation for our trip to Latveria."

"That -- is fast work on your part." I said.

"You don't know the half of it. Last night, Victor sent me an e-mail attachment containing one of the most extraordinary documents I have ever encountered in my study and practice of law." my lawyer told me.

"What was it?" I asked, as he seemed to expect it.

"A prenuptial agreement."

"What, now? This is just too much --." I said. This might be the last straw.

"No, you're thinking about it the wrong way. You're thinking about it like an American, as if you would get less with a prenuptial then you would without one, in case of a divorce. You are Latverian now, and more specifically, think of who you're married to. What protections do you have now?

"Believe me, you want to sign this. You should sign this. I would even go so far as to say that you need to sign this. It's all right. I was a bit concerned at first, but I read it -- all of it. It's the size of one of your hometown's phone books. As your attorney, I advise you to sign it"

"What does it have in it?" I asked.

"About a third of it concerns money and other property that he's settling on you, with provisions for children, should you have any. Half of it consists of the various protections and assurances, for you, from him, and against him. If he misbehaves toward you, he has to pay for it. Substantially. In money."

"Oh, great!" I said. "So he can slap me with one hand, and with the other, offer me a wad of euros to ease the pain."

"No, the money wouldn't be paid to you. It would go to Reed Richards." Angevin said.

"What?" I asked.

"If you have cause to complain of his conduct, he has to send a sizable sum of money to Reed Richards." the Prince of Sharkness repeated.

I took all of that in, and I started to laugh. "Please explain the details." I begged him.

He did. It was complicated -- being a product of Victor's mind, it would hardly be anything else -- and while it didn't address issues such as 'What if I were being held incommunicado in the dungeon?' -- but the mere fact that it would exist was very reassuring. While he might, while in a passionate fury, break his word to me -- his loathing for Reed Richards was such that Victor would suffer the tortures of hell for eternity before he would willingly and disinterestedly benefit his enemy.

"It's not all one-sided." Angevin continued. " The remaining part is penalties for your misbehavior,and if the worst comes tothe worst, he can exile you to a desert island, not without food or shelter but without the kids, if any, and without internet access, television, radio, or books."

"That's harsh. What is that for?" I asked.

"Infidelity and/or treason." said Robert Angevin. "I did discuss certain parts of it with him. I explained that some of his strictures precluded either tact or privacy, which are essential to any marriage, and he did allow me to make certain changes."

"I'll sign it," I said. There was a spark of light in my soul again.

"Good," said Angevin. "I'm here. You and Victor are going to get to listen in, if you stay on the line. I didn't mention it, but I'm going in wired for sound."

If Victor were going to listen in, that meant that Victor was going to have to be here.

Tentative, but a bit hopeful, I contacted him. "Victor? Robert Angevin is about to go into a meeting with Rhonda McKenna and her attorney. I -- I would like it very much if you were here with me to listen to what happens. Do you have time right now?" The proposed prenuptial agreement didn't make everything magically all better, but it was the beginning of the road back to trust.

"Yes, I have." was his reply.

While I waited for Victor, I listened with one ear to Robert Angevin as heentered Mr. Rupert's offices, spoke to his secretary,was introduced, and finally admitted to the inner office.

When Victor entered my suite, I was listening to the two attorneys. I looked up, "You haven't really missed anything yet. They're just discussing how glad they are to have a few minutes to speak before my mother arrives."

I turned on the speakerphone feature, so that Victor could hear:

"You have to admit there is a certain resemblance between the two girls. If they are two girls, that is." said Mr. Rupert, who had been the McKennas' attorney for as long as I could remember, possibly since the First World War. He was quite an old man.

"Yes, the resemblance between Rhonette McKenna and Joviana Florescu. There is a reason for that." said my attorney. "They resemble each other for the same reason that that Rhonette McKenna spoke Latverian. Once I got going on my homework, I discovered something very interesting.

"Your client's daughter was the granddaughter of Annie Sheaffer. Annie Sheaffer was born Anisoara Bran, near Brantzia, in Latveria. Anisoara Bran had a brother named Radu. After he was shocked by the Soviets for insurrection, his wife moved away with their daughter Alina, changed their names and remarried. Thus, Alina Bran became Galina Staretsky, and Galina Staretsky married Anton Florescu. They had Joviana Florescu, who is their only child. Rhonette McKenna and Joviana Florescu, as a consequence, are cousins. I have my clients history here in black-and-white, albeit in Cyrillic script, but with excellent translations."

"That can't be true," said my mother's attorney uncertainly.

"Would you like to speak to Galina Florescu? I'm sure it can be arranged." stated Robert Angevin, with certainty.

"Is that true?" I asked Victor.

" As it so happens, yes."

For a moment I could not speak. "Galina really is kin to me by blood. She's really my father's first cousin. This isn't just part of the conditioning, or something that was mocked up?"

"Entirely so. Unfabricated, unaltered, and provable through DNA. "

"Victor, I am married to a genius. I only suspected that before, but this is proof beyond any doubt. Even if they do manage to force me into some DNA test, this would still cast doubt on the validity of it."

"Such was my thinking when I chose her from among the possible candidates." said Victor serenely.

We had missed a little bit of the conversation during our exchange.

"Your client's fiancé is known to be a very clever man -- and reputed to be ruthless. Who knows what he might have done or persuaded her into?"

"Mr. Rupert -- I will ask you this outright. What does your client want?" asked my attorney.

"Why does your client care?" countered my mother's lawyer.

"My client knows the people in the publiceye are sometimes unknowingly the object of an individual's fixation. What was the name of that young actress who starred in the sitcom about 20 years ago? She was shot to death by a fan. Look at Ronald Reagan -- shot because Hinckley had a crush on Jodie Foster. My client does not want to find your client at the wrong end of a gun one day. It would weigh heavily on her conscience after her security guards shot your client."

"Mr. Angevin, that sounds rather like a threat to me." I heard a chair creak.

"It is not a threat. The security that surrounds my client is apparently invisible -- but keep in mind where they come from and who trained them. They would shoot to kill."

"Fair enough. My client wants a DNA test to prove that your client is, or is not, her daughter. Until she gets that, my client will tell her tale to the media for as long as they will listen -- and under the circumstances, they will listen for a long, long time. The longer your client refuses, the worse it will get." The man sound as matter-of-fact as possible.

"Understood. However, when the result comesback negative -- as it will -- what happens then?"

"My client will issue a full retraction and apology, as requested. Anyone can make amistake."

"But will a negative result on a DNA test be enough to convince her? Fixation is a very interesting condition, psychologically speaking."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Mr. Rupert's secretary announced that my mother had arrived. I heard the rustling sounds of someone entering the room, and then I heard my mother's voice say:

"Oh, she's not with you." She sounded disappointed. "I thought my daughter would be with you."

"Your daughter, ma'am? As I understand it, your daughter has been missing for a little over three years now." Angevin was perfect. He sounded very slightly puzzled, but thoroughly businesslike. "If, however, you are referring to my client. she is in Latveria, extremely busy with preparations for her wedding tomorrow."

"Your client is my daughter." My mother was perfect, too. She sounded sincere, ardent and on the brink of tears.

"Now, Rhonda," her attorney told her cheerfully, "if that's the tack they're going to take, then that's the tack they're going to take. We just have to deal with it."

"'Tack they're going to take.'" asked the Prince of Sharpness, sounding puzzled. "We aren't taking any tack. Ms. McKenna is mistaken. I have a copy of Joviana Florescu's birth certificate. Here. And here are the translations. Also, her school records, immunization records, some images that my client's mother scanned and sent, the official portrait photograph released by the Latverian government, taken only a few days ago --"

"Oh, I don't doubt that all looks very good." Mr. Rupert said. "But you must understand that order to put my client's mind at rest --a mother searching for her only child --."

"There you are wrong. Your clients missing daughter is not her only child. Early in 1984, Ms. McKenna entered the Carlyle Osteopathic Medical Center under the name of Linda McIntyre, where she gave birth to a male infant. 18 hours later, she surreptitiously leftthe center, abandoning her newborn son, to whom she had given the name of Luke McIntyre. Apparently, she never looked back. The child was put up for adoption of the records were sealed."

"How did you find that out?" My mother was no less shocked than I was -- I had a brother?

"I can add two and two." said my attorney. "Within 10 hours after you left the Carlyle Medical Center, you were back in an emergency room, this time in the York County Holy Cross Hospital, being treated for puerperal fever, an infection of the area of the uterus left raw where the expelled placenta was attached during pregnancy. You entered that hospital under your own name, and you claimed you had had an abortion. After I found that, I started looking for a baby. I found one. The child was put up for adoption, and the records were sealed."

(I looked up at Victor. He shook his head. "This is Angevin's own discovery.")

I had a half-brother.

"I don't like you." My mother said, plainly. "You have no right to --."

"I had the same right that you had to make claims about my client. Have you ever tried to find out what became of your other child?"

"Railway. I can't Caterpillar do that." said Rhonda McKenna. That made no sense whatsoever, unless of course, one knew that she was schizophrenic. Schizophrenics were prone to burst out in what was called 'word salad': gibberish statements, the product of a disordered mind.

"Rhonda, are you feeling well?" asked her attorney.

"I -- yes. I'm fine." She answered. "My -- my tongue got tied."

"So you see, your plea to find your only child, is at heart, untrue. You have received sympathetic press coverage to this point -- how will they react upon learning that? And then your attorney said that you and your daughter parted on bad terms." My attorney said it very carefully, not sarcastically, not sardonically.

"That may be the worst case of gross misunderstatement I have ever heard from someone not connected to the government. Let me re-acquaint you with the facts.

"On June 30th 2002, the police received a 911 call from Rhonette McKenna to the effect that she was being held prisoner in the cellar of her home by her mother. Upon responding to the call, the police report states that you denied the allegation and refused them entry, but a neighbor's daughter, together with a friend, from whom your daughter had borrowed the cell phone to call for help, confirmed they had seen and talked toRhonette who had called to them from a broken cellar window. They were taking a shortcut across the property in question.

"When the police entered the house, you protested, and when they reached the cellar, you assaulted one of the police officers. At first they were unable to locate your daughter, because you had locked her in a small pantry, and then moved a shelving unit over the door and loaded it with paint cans to conceal it."

"I don't want to hear this!" said my mother. "That is, I want to put it behind me."

"Do you? Not as much as your daughter would like to, I'll bet. Once the police broke down the door, after restraining you, they discovered your daughter in a state of severe dehydration. She had been confined in a space so small she could not lie down in it at full length. She stated that she had been locked in there for more than three days, during which time you had ignored her pleas and cries to be set free, and withheld food, water and access to a bathroom, from her.

"You were arrested, and she was taken to the hospital in an ambulance."

"Don't say anything else, Rhonda," counseled her attorney. "The balance of my clients mind was disturbed at the time. She was severely depressed. Her daughter Rhonette understood, and did not press charges."

"She should have." My attorney asserted. "I strongly suspect she was talked out of it. Instead, she was fobbed off with a restraining order."

"She did not --." began Mr. Rupert.

"According to the complaint filed by Rhonette McKenna, your client was in the habit of calling her places of work and, purporting to be a former employer or co-worker, perpetrated lies about Rhonette's work history, alleging misconduct and theft. Most of the calls were found to have been made at a pay phone outside a convenience store three quarters of a mile from here. Of course, nothing was ever proven. I imagine the media would be very interested in hearing about all of that."

Just hearing about it was like feeling a ball of lead sink from the top of my head through to the pit of my stomach. I had been miserable, angry, afraid, humiliated, disgusted near to insane with thirst, despairing, desperate, and finally resigned.

("I didn't go completely without water." I said, to explain how it was to Victor. "On the second night, it rained. I took off my nightshirt, and I stuck it out the window, so it would get soaked. Then I wrung it out and sucked all the liquid I could out of it. I did it two or three times. And my grandmother used to keep her preserves and canned vegetables in that pantry. I found a jar of green beans at the back of the shelf. God only knows how old they were. I ate them and drank all the liquid in the jar. It's a good thing she really knew her business when it came to canning, or it might've been full of botulism, otherwise.")

"Ms. McKenna was required to undergo psychological testing." continued the Prince of Sharkness. "And was diagnosed with depression. What was the specialty of the diagnosing professional?"

"Family counseling." said Mr. Rupert.

"I see." said my attorney.

"I don't like this," announced my mother. "I'm going. I have to go to the bathroom." She left.

Once the door was closed behind her, I presumed, Robert Angevin asked his counterpart, "Has your client ever been screened for schizophrenia? She's exhibiting certain indicators, certain symptoms of it."

"What symptoms?" asked her lawyer.

"To begin with, does your client usually dress as though she has been wearing her clothes day and night for a week? It isn't just that she looks like she did, she smells like she did. Also that nonsense statement that she came out in with the middle of things -- I don't think that was simply a case of having her tongue tied."

"You mean a split personality like Jekyll and Hyde?" asked Mr. Rupert. "No, she's not schizophrenic. Just a bit eccentric."

"No. That will be multiple personality disorder. Schizophrenia does mean a split personality, but not split off inside the individual -- split off the rest of humanity. If my client were your client's daughter, which of course she is not, it would be one of the first things I would press for -- a full psychiatric evaluation by a specialist in severe mental disorders. If the specialist diagnosed schizophrenia -- that would be where the real fun begins."

"How so?" asked Mr. Rupert, sounding a bit scared.

"Again, this is simply speculation. Schizophrenia does not arrive suddenly and full-blown at the age of forty-four. If the psychiatrist can trace the onset of her disease -- and consequent mental incompetence -- well then! There will be a lot of lawsuits.

"To begin with, your client's ex-husband, who has since remarried, and has gubernatorial aspirations. He would be in for it, because not only would he immediately become a bigamist -- as one cannot divorce an insane person -- but if there is the slightest scrap of evidence that he knew his wife was unwell and he divorced her, then, rather than leaving his step daughter in her mother's care, he left his wife in the care of a minor. He may even face criminal charges, for child endangerment. And there goes his political career --.

"Then there is the McKenna family, who did nothing to help Rhonette care for her mother, but left the entire burden on the shoulders of a minor. Again, child endangerment, adding neglect and mental cruelty.

"Finally, there's you." Angevin had an amazing voice He was a born orator. He could been a minister or president-- or a really good lawyer.

"Me?" asked the McKennas' attorney. His voice came out in a squeak.

"You. You persuaded Rhonette McKenna to drop the charges. When I mentioned earlier, that I strongly is suspected that she had been persuaded to do so. I saw what you did with your eyes, and your mouth. I'm very good at reading non-verbal cues." said Angevin.

Silence.

"So it's just as well that my client isn't your client's daughter, is it?"

"Yes." I could imagine the other lawyer sweating bullets.

"A full retraction and apology." said Angevin. "If I were you, I would personally find a psychiatrist who specializes in schizophrenia. I would even drive Ms. McKenna there.".

TBC…


	76. Chapter 76

A/N: If perchance you read the last chapter within an hour of its posting, you got a very poorly edited version. I posted the wrong one. That has now been corrected. If you go back and reread it, you'll see.

* * *

I heard the door open and close, and Rhonda McKenna announced, unnecessarily, "I'm back."

"Yes." Her attorney coughed. "Rhonda--please sit down again. Now, you went ahead and spoke to the press without consulting me -- or anyone else – first, and since you did that, you and I haven't had a chance to discuss this matter. Exactly what you do hope to achieve if you can prove Ms. Florescu is really your Rhonette?"

"What do I hope to achieve? I want my daughter back!" She had returned to the tragic, grieving role she had assumed at the start.

"I understand. What you imagine will happen, if you're proven right?" Mr. Rupert asked.

"Well -- she'll have to come home, won't she? Once she's shown up as a fraud? I want her at home. I miss her."

"If you think that Victor Von Doom would repudiate the marriage and have his wife throws out the country penniless over this, you're quite mistaken." said my lawyer.

"I really wish we had talked about this ahead of time, Rhonda." said her attorney. "I think you may be a little muddled. You're talking like if you can prove she is Rhonette, she'll have no choice but to come home to live with you again. That just isn't so. I don't think you considered the consequences if you succeeded in this. You want the papers to go printing everything about your other baby, and that other unfortunate business? Remember that old saying: 'People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.'"

"Speaking of houses," Angevin put in, "according to the registry of deeds, your daughter Rhonette is the owner of record of the house in which you live. Your daughter would be able to have you evicted, if my client were your daughter -- or have the gas, water, and electric shut off summarily -- even sell the house out from under you or have it demolished, if she so chose."

Rhonda McKenna—I was trying not to think of her as my mother anymore— said, indignantly, "She couldn't do that. It's my house. She signed it over to me. She was eighteen, so it was legal. I've got the paper at home."

"Regardless of whatever paper you may have at home, the registry of deeds states that the owner of that house is Rhonette McKenna. Was your paper signed before witnesses and stamped by a notary public?" asked the Prince of Sharkness.

"No." My mother said, sullenly.

"Then it isn't legal, and even if it were -- it could very well be argued that, she being only eighteen at the time, you might have exerted an undue influence over her. On the other hand, if my client is not your daughter, then after four or five years, you can go to court and have declared legally dead. Because you are her next of kin, the house would become yours automatically."

"But that's wrong!" she burst out.

"Rhonda -- I've known you since you were a little girl -- so, as an old friend, not just as your lawyer, I'm telling you this: Let this go. Issue a retraction and apology, and say that you made a mistake. I think -- I think it's possible you need to speak to someone -- some who can help you."

"No! She's going to get away with this! That can't happen -- I can't let that happen. I'll go to Latveria. I'll make her see me."

My attorney remarked, "Visiting Latveria is not as easy as visiting most countries. All tourist visas have to be approved by Victor Von Doom. Under the circumstances, I hardly think you would be allowed entry into the country, and if you went in anyway, illegally, and you were not summarily shot, you would end up in the dungeons of Castle Doom."

"But she is my daughter! Before she disappeared, she was back in my house -- she left something there -- and he was with her, Doom was with her." My mother said.

"Rhonda, you need help. I'll do my best—." Mr. Rupert tried.

"Wait." Her voice suddenly changed. "You know Joviana, don't you? You've spoken with her?"

Angevin's reply was, "Yes."

"You could get a message to her, from me, couldn't you?" Asked my mother -- or someone who was using her voice.

"If I thought it was necessary she should receive it, yes." replied my lawyer.

"All right -- tell her this is from -- this is from Malice."

Silence.

"Ms. McKenna?" Prompted Angevin.

"I'm thinking how to put this -- it's no use, it sounds crazy no matter how I put it. Here's the message: I have no right to ask for help, but I'm begging. I'm stuck in Rhonda's head, and I can't get out."

"You'll excuse me for a moment?" Broke in Mr. Rupert.

"It's horrible in here. I can't -- no." Her voice returned to the familiar steely tones that my mother often used. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I would a setback. I mean, why I would have said that. Please excuse me."

I heard the door open and close again, and then Mr. Rupert hissed, as if into the microphone or into Angevin's ear, "Called the State Mental Hospital. Sending ambulance."

"I'm afraid I have to take my leave of you," said Robert Angevin. "My family is waiting for me at the airport."

Once he was outside, he spoke directly to me once again. "Did you hear all that?"

"Yes." I replied. "You were amazing."

"You have earned my respect." added Victor. "An impressive performance. Most satisfactory."

The Prince of Sharkness answered, modestly, "Thank you -- it may not be the end, but now we have her attorney on our side -- and he will see to it that the rest of the family follows suit. What you propose to do about Malice?"

"For the moment -- nothing." I told him. "How else can I tell the families of the two guards and the driver, that the murderer of their loved ones is being punished for what she did? What other prison could be devised to hold her? Oh, perhaps when Professor Xavier's feeling better, I shall consult with him about getting Malice out of my mother's head -- I don't think a mutant tenant in her head can be good for her. For the time being, however, I think that Malice is in just the right place."

"That's fine with me. I will see you -- in about 15 hours. Bye!" Robert Angevin broke up the connection, and I took a deep breath and tried to collect my thoughts and my feelings before I turned to Victor.

How did I feel now? I had thought I would need to cry. I didn't, if anything, I felt as though I had just put a very heavy burden down. Yes, it hurt a bit, as tightened and cramped muscles will hurt when you try and stretch them. Really, though, I felt very—free.

"Don't expect me to fling myself into your embrace. After all, you're wearing armor and I don't like bruises. I never did like banging my head against a brick wall… What I mean is," I said, taken aback by how easy it was to mislay my caution and talk to him so normally again. "I'm feeling somewhat better."

"That is good." He said. "The embrace can wait for later."

Neither of us mentioned the prenuptial agreement -- We probably never would. Nor did he ask if he was forgiven, any more than I told him he was. I reflected that this might prove to set the pattern for conflict resolution throughout our entire marriage, with Victor never conceding that he had done something wrong -- but finding some other way to make things right.

I could only hope there would be some pretty spectacular makeup sex when we reached the end of the day.


	77. Chapter 77

"So there will be a wedding tomorrow?" Victor asked me.

"Yes," I replied. There had never been a question of calling it off. At this point -- what with all the guests, all the preparations, and, quite importantly-- the most important of all, in fact, our embryonic daughter--- all of these, compounded, were sufficient reason to go forward with the wedding. Even in my darkest moments, I had not contemplated calling it off.

"There is something that I believe you may have forgotten." Victor turned his head and looked at me meaningfully.

"What might that be?" I asked.

"This is the day before our wedding, and as I was promised, the ring I designed for you has been completed and delivered. I told you that when it was ready, when I could put it into your hand, and you could read the words engraved there, then I would tell you what you said to me in Hell that persuaded me we should be united."

"That's right! I hadn't forgotten exactly, I just mislaid it, what with everything that was going on. Are you going to tell me now?"

"No. Not yet. Later. Now I believe they are expecting us for a wedding rehearsal." He was right of course, as he so often was.

The ceremony was going to be Latverian Orthodox, which was essentially Eastern Orthodox with a few local variations.

A lot of our guests were going to be surprised by the differences between this wedding ceremony and those they were familiar with in the Western forms of Christianity. The problem was, so was I. I was fairly ignorant.

I had plenty of faith, once. My grandmother had been a convert to Lutheranism, my mother's family were all Baptists, and I went to church with first one, then the other, without questioning it. After my mother's divorce, she stopped going within a year, and I stopped too. Since moving to Latveria, I had attended services at the Doomstadt Cathedral but rarely, and never had I been to a wedding here.

I had only a few sketchy ideas of what the differences were going to be. I knew, for example, that at some point Victor and I were going to be holding lighted candles for a extended time, and that there would be crowns involved. I did not know that I would not be walking down any sort of aisle to meet Victor at the altar, or in this case, walking through the assemblage of guests to enter the Castle and go to the balcony where Victor would be waiting.

No, instead, Victor, accompanied by Boris, and my mother and I, would meet the bishop at the back of the castle yard by the gatehouses, where my mother would place my hand in the bishop's. Then the bishop would place my hand in Victor's, and lead us together down a white carpet, (which at the moment was simply some chalked-in lines), up the aisle into Castle Doom, up the stairs, and finally out onto the balcony.

We walked through it -- and walking was the relevant word. There was a small altar table set up on the balcony, and part of the ceremony required that Victor and I walk around it three times while carrying the aforementioned lighted candles. It's a good thing my dress didn't have an enormous train like Princess Diana's -- or it would have ended up wound around the altar table like spaghetti on a fork.

It was nice to see how both Boris and my mother were relieved to find Victor and I were on better terms than we had been that morning. It made up for the bishop, who seemed disappointed that I was willing to leave the stricture to obey in his Instructions on Marriage. However, he did have a chance to chide me for being so westernized that I thought the left hand was the proper hand for wedding rings. Another thing I did not know— apparently in Eastern Orthodoxy, wedding rings are always worn on the right hand.

And that was another difficulty. The bride and groom were supposed to exchange rings. It was an important part of the ceremony. I didn't have a ring for Victor. My mother, seeing my wide-eyed look of momentary panic, came to my rescue. "Don't worry, dear. I didn't forget it. It's at home. For the ceremony, she wanted to use her father's wedding ring." she explained.

It was a nice save. "I really didn't know what sort you'd like." I told Victor. "Or what your size might be. We can choose one later."

"It was something to which I gave no thought." he admitted, or invented. It occurred to me that I have no idea what Victor's religion might be-- or if he had any at all.

After the wedding rehearsal, it was time for dinner. Most rehearsal dinners are apparently somewhat formal events, these days. This was not. It was basically make- your-own sandwiches with cold cuts and salads, served buffet style in the garden for ourselves, and for such wedding guests who had showed up early, such as the King of Wakanda, T'Challah, also known as the superhero Black Panther.

He drew me aside at one point, as we stood around with our plates of food and asked a favor: Could he be seated next to Ororo Munro, who was also Storm of the X-Men? Storm was a very beautiful woman of African decent, whose mutant power was weather control. Her mutancy showed in her pure white hair and her crystal-blue eyes; she was striking. Small wonder that he should want to be seated near her!

I thought that was quite interesting, and I told him yes, I would speak to a steward about it -- only after chiding him for sending, as his wedding gift, a fertility, or rather a virility, idol so enthusiastic that it could not be put on public display. He laughed, and said he had put aside his quarrel with Victor for the occasion, but that he could not resist embarrassing him.

Moving along, I encountered Namor, who had printed out a picture of Marrina and was inclined to gaze at it moonily, which interfered with his ability to eat properly. Still, he seemed very happy. If the business with T'challa and Storm of the X-Men turned out the way it seemed it might, I anticipated a flood of wedding invitations in the next several months. That was amusing to think of.

All of this, however, was simply filler. I was waiting for the time, when dinner was over, when everyone had gone back to their rooms, or their homes. Then I could go upstairs with Victor and finally find out what it was I had said, when I was dead, when I could not lie about how I felt, or conceal it. It seemed to me the person I had hidden it from the most was myself.

It was not until it was time for the dessert course, profiteroles filled with ice cream and drizzled with chocolate sauce, that Victor and I were thrown together by the ebb and flow of people.

"I fear, my dear, that you have lost an admirer. I have just spent the last quarter of an hour speaking, or rather, listening to Namor talking about a woman by the name of Marrina. He had with him a picture of her, but I must say that she is one of the oddest -- even to the point of being repellent -- females I have ever seen."

"Well, you have to make allowances for individuality." I told him. "She's not of the surface world, you see. And if he findsher beautiful, well then she will be beautiful -- and the world will come to see it as well. After all, I am not, objectively speaking, beautiful, for my features are too strong -- even heavy. I know quite well that if somehow the young Audrey Hepburn and I were in the same room nobody would look at me twice. Yet I'm being called beautiful, and in print, too. I know quite well it's because I'm marrying you."

"What a ridiculous statement. Are you somehow of the impression that you aren't attractive?" Victor asked.

"I'm attractive enough." I smiled. "You seem to find me so, anyway."

"I believe it is quiet enough now that we might slip away unobserved." Victor commented. "I shall meet you upstairs in ten minutes."

I said good night to a few people, hugged my mother, who promised she would be by in the morning to help me dress, and then, (what the heck), hugged Boris too, and went upstairs.

I did not find Victor where I thought I would -- which was to say, in my suite. The connecting door to his apartments was open, however, and I hesitated but a moment at the door before I asked, "May I come in?"

"Naturally." came his voice from the darkened room.

For the first time, I stepped over the threshold. It would been fascinating to have a good look around at everything, but the focus of my attention was on the man who stood by the windows. He had shed the armor and was wearing the informal mask with a shirt and trousers. The lights came up as I crossed the room to him. I looked out the window, just as he was doing.

"I thought your rooms must overlook the city, and I was right." I said.

"It bears watching." said Victor,. My hands were resting on the window seat. His hand slipped into mine, and in it there was a small velvet-covered something that I supposed to be a ring box. When his hand retreated, leaving the walnut-sized box in mine, I raised the box to the level of my eyes and opened it.

Of course it was beautiful. It was also very unusual. There was a brilliantly clear rectangular cut diamond mounted lengthwise across the band, surmounted by a crown. It was heavy gold, and delicately enameled in blue, red, and green. The crown had a ruby set in it, and the shank of the ring had a hand holding a heart on each side.

I took out of the box, and as I did so it came into pieces -- two pieces. One half had the diamond, and the other half had the crown. I realized it was a gemmal ring, two interlocking bands. The inscription was not inside the band, where it would be rubbed against the finger, but inside the two bands, which when worn would look like one ring.

"You are my summer." I read, and looked at Victor. "You are my summer?"

"Yes." he said. "I decided upon that, although you gave me any number of phrases to choose from. When I asked you 'But why? What am I to you that you would you do such a thing for me?', your reply was:

"I admired you before I ever met you. Plus, I need you, but that didn't happen much to do with why I did it -- it came upon me by degrees." You looked puzzled.

"What came upon you by degrees?" I asked

"Liking you. I didn't think I would. At first I thought it was just that I liked talking to someone who understood everything I said, every concept, every word. But I realized I liked how I felt when I was around you. Since I was 12 or so I've gone through the world feeling like Alice in Wonderland, after she drinks the potion that makes her grow until she's stuck in the rabbit's house, with her arm out the window and her foot up the chimney -- too big, too tall, too smart, too outspoken, too opinionated, too odd-looking.

"It made me awkward, and silent. It made me feel ugly. It made me hate myself. But around you -- I notice none of those things. I feel as if I fit -- as if I'm normal, even accepted.

"Even if it's just because I'm so insignificant to you that you can't be bothered to stare or sneer, I had rather be miniscule to you, than be noticed by anyone else -- because to anyone else, I'm an oddity.

"I don't know if this is love; it seems too quiet and too natural. A flower, a jasmine perhaps, that's wintered inside will live, or at least not die, through the months of frost. Perhaps it would even send out a flower too, but nothing like what it will do one put outside when summer comes. Then it unfolds its leaves, uncurls its tendrils, growing fit to overflow the container that binds it -- and it blooms as though to garb itself and lace and reflect the sun that nourishes it.

"You are my summer, although you did not know it nor intended, and near you, I grow, I thrive, and I bloom."

"What do you want of me -- that you do not have already ?" I asked you.

Your reply was, "Nothing -- except that I wish you were happier."

I asked you, "What?"

"I know being angry is part of who you are, like your height or your intellect -- but I wish there was room for happiness there as well. I wish it could just enjoy a joke or read a book, and be happy in that moment."

"And for this you would risk your immortal soul." I marveled.

"Heaven would not be heaven, were you not there."

"I am scarred. I have killed people with my own hands, and I am likely to do so again. I have conquered the world, and will do so again. I have been called vicious, ruthless, cruel, and implacable, and in those things there may be some truth."

You nodded "And your name is Victor Von Doom. Yes, I know. You say these things as if they should be new to me."

"And yet you feel as you do?" I asked.

"Yes." was your answer.

"What if I were to send you away? What if you never saw me again, nor spoke to me, nor heard my voice, ever again?"

"Winter always comes back, sooner or later. I'll live."

"What if I were to requite it? What if I took you to my heart, as you have taken me to yours, make you my wife?" I asked you.

"'It were all one that I should love a bright particular star, and think to wed it, he is so above me.' That's from 'All 's Well That Ends Well ' "you answered. I do not think there can be many other people in the world, on whose soul the entirety of Shakespeare is apparently engraved.

"Not Shakespeare's words; your own." I demanded.

"You'd never do that." was your reply.

"For the sake of argument, then, what if I did?"

"You said, "I don't know." -- but your mouth smiled just a little. I do not know precisely what decided me -- whether it was the simple eloquence of your statement, or that you wanted so little -- but I decided then that I must marry you."


	78. Chapter 78

""It was not," Victor continued, "that I had fallen in love with you, not that. I was pleased and gratified to find that I should have inspired such an emotion in you -- I, who could not imagine successfully wooing a woman without the attractions of power and money to plead for me. I was genuinely moved by the magnitude of what you had done for me, and this was the best and most fitting way in which I could show my gratitude -- to marry you."

He continued, "I liked your wit, and admired your intelligence. I considered your other virtues and qualities, and judged to fit to be my wife and the mother of my heirs. I could contemplate sharing bed and board with you without repugnance- even with a marked degree of attraction.

"You loved me, and it would be pleasant to be loved. If I did not love you, I would care for you, I could be fond of you, and you would never know the difference. If I became attached to you -- well, that was a matter of brain secretions, the chemical action of neurohormones such as endorphins and oxytocin -- biology's way of ensuring that sex partners bond long enough to ensure that human children survive infancy.

"Or so I imagined, before this week -- before I even touched my hand to your cheek in a caress."

I waited, listening. He was building up to something, I could tell.

"That intellectual detachment did not last a week. It did not last four days -- it did not even last two. In vain, I struggled against admitting it to myself -- I have fallen in love with you. I may know in my head it is all a conspiracy of biology, the correct genetic strategy, an ennobleised instinct. Yet my heart insists that I love you."

I was feeling very shaky, like an electrical charge it passed through me, and tears are threatening to spill over out of my eyes and run down my cheeks. "Um-- would you mind repeating that?" I asked. He had never said it before, not in so many words.

"I love you." Victor said, in a soft, raspy, deep voice, like velvet or chocolate would sound, if they could speak. " I love you more deeply and intensely than I had ever imagined I could love anyone."

If we were living in a fairy tale -- which in some respects, we were -- comic books being very close to both mythology and fairy tales -- those would've been magic words that broke a spell.

Perhaps they were. The Doctor Doom who postured and posed over the pages of the worst written of the comic books would not have been capable of loving anyone, not even himself. Perhaps this was part of what I had always sought to do -- which was to separate our world from the created world of Marvel Comics. The essential message of the children's book, The Velveteen Rabbit, sprang to my mind: If you are truly loved, then you become Real -- and if it could happen to a stuffed toy, then why not to a fictional character? Wasn't Sherlock Holmes much more real than many people who had lived and died?

At that point, I had to fling myself into his embrace, blotting my streaming eyes on his shirt. "I'm not upset. I'm happy -- I just can't it express any other way."

He stroked my hair. "This goes beyond words, my dear—my wife, my love."

After a long moment spent nestled against his shoulder—he was just the perfect height for me, his shoulder was very conveniently placed, I felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. "I am very glad we are reconciled—as I have an inspiration concerning our honeymoon schedule which would be criminal to allow to go to waste. You will enjoy it immeasurably, I assure you. I will now tell you part of it. We will be going to Italy. However, the relevant issue is not where in Italy—but when."

"When? Tomorrow night, you mean?" I asked him.

"In one sense of time, yes. But do not forget the time machine."

"Ooooh!" I said. "Now I'm really intrigued! Ancient Rome?"

"No. I will say no more." He shook his head.

"Very well, then. I'm afraid I've soaked your shirt. You should take it off, lest you catch cold." I pulled it out of his pants as I spoke.

"The way in which you are caressing my back does not suggest that your chiefest concern is my health, although I admit I do not object—Why, then, ought I to remove my trousers?"

"I'm sure I can think of a reason--." I smiled.

TBC….


	79. Chapter 79

"However, I must remind you that we are under instructions from the bishop to eat nothing and drink only water after sunset until we are united by him in holy wedlock tomorrow -- and that we are to sleep alone and separately tonight. As I recall, we both agreed to this." Victor said, making me pause as my fingers played over the ripples of his back.

"Ah. So we did." I said, reluctantly taking my hands off the shoulder blades. "Well, that will make tomorrow night all the more special. So --", I said, looking around. "This is your room." There was something more going on than just adherence to the bishop's instructions. This was a little test Victor was playing on me -- to see whether I would try and persuade him otherwise, manipulating him. Very well, if he wanted to forgo getting laid tonight for the sake of testing my intentions, so be it.

"Yes. You are the first person -- other than myself -- to cross the threshold in many years." Victor told me.

"Really? Who makes the bed and does the dusting, then?" I asked, flashing him a little grin.

"Servobots," he said. "Thought you would catch me out, didn't you?"

"I can try, can't I?" I gave the room a once-over. It was simply -- even starkly -- furnished, but with the sort of simplicity only the very very rich could afford. It showed in the materials and the designs. There were bookshelves, a fireplace with a large comfortable looking chair before it, a bed that was no larger than a double, and a few paintings on the walls. The photograph of Victor's parents on their wedding day, stood on the table by the bed -- I recognized the gaudy frame Boris had chosen for it.

"It's a very private space." I said, after moment's reflection. I stepped closer to peer at a painting on the wall. It was a Vermeer -- one of my favorites, The Woman Holding a Balance. It was a very serene and beautiful picture of a woman, who looks heavily pregnant, standing in front of a table with jewelry and coins scattered on it. Behind her hung a large painting showing the Last Judgment.

She stood between realities, carrying within her the future, and she held a small set of scales, in her hand, lightly and delicately, waiting for it to come to rest. Faced with a choice between the material and the spiritual, she chooses to make the two balance in her life, and herself, and consequently her face is lit with an inner glow, the light of peace.

I could hardly imagine anyone more different than Victor, than that woman in that painting.

"Is the National Gallery of Art aware that you've got their best Vermeer?" I asked him.

"That is not theirs -- look at it again." He challenged me.

I did. It was looking at a 'Can you spot the difference?' mindbender, only I didn't have the other picture to refer to. "Her jacket might be a brighter shade of blue -- but I think the wall to the left behind her is bare in the one the Gallery has, while in this one, there's a mirrored candle sconce hanging on it."

"Very good. Vermeer painted two versions. This is the first, and to my mind, the better of the two." Victor looked at it judiciously.

"I can hardly argue with you -- I just thought of something."

"What?" he asked.

"Your wedding present." I went back to my room, and pulled out the case in which the Malleus had come. Victor had followed me, and watched as I placed the case on a table and gestured to it. "I'm not sure whether you would welcome this as an addition to your collection of rare manuscripts -- or whether you'd get more pleasure out of destroying it, but I thought that either way, you would get a great deal of pleasure out of it."

He unsnapped the case and lifted the lid. "The Malleus!" He exclaimed, greatly surprised. "Yes, I will certainly keep this, as an example of what to strive against. Thank you, my dear. How very unexpected, and how original."

"Thank you." I replied.

"As it so happens, I have a wedding present for you as well, but you shall have to wait for tomorrow night."

"Another present? After the jewelry and everything?" I asked.

"It gives me great pleasure to give you things, my dear."

"I would like to work my way up into a scold about how you're far too extravagant, where I'm concerned -- but somehow, I think you'll give me an opportunity to do that at some point in the future. Well, if we're not going to go to bed together, I will bid you good night." We parted, with a fairly chaste kiss, at his door -- and I -- went to bed.

After all, it had been a very long day, and a night spent sleepless before that. Tomorrow was likely to be the biggest day of my life thus far, and I wanted to be ready for it -- and whatever it might bring.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know, I'm SUCH a tease. But I was suffering naughtiness writer's block.

Also, for those of you who are fans of Robert Angevin, check out my fic Richard, the Third. It's his real name--and his story.


	80. Chapter 80

"My lady!" The voice was Ulrike's.

I slipped my sleep mask off and looked up at my personal stylist. "Did I oversleep?" I asked, muzzily.

"Yes. It's five of seven. The wedding' s at ten. I thought for sure you'd be up and showered by now. We have to hurry, my lady. Go take a shower -- if it pleases you, that is. Did you shampoo your hair yesterday?"

"Yes." I rubbed my eyes.

"Then don't shampoo it today -- or condition it. Just rinse it out well, and towel--dry it. Don't touch the hair dryer. I'll have your undergarments laid out for you. Do you know what perfume you want to wear?"

"Yes --. Fracas." I got up and got to it.

When I got out of the shower and went into my dressing room, wrapped in my bathrobe, Ulrike was waiting in there with two young women, strangers to me.

"My lady, these are my daughters. This is Elizavetta --" she indicated the one on the right, who had lighter brown hair -- "and this is Anca.", she said, referring to the other, whose hair was a richer shade of brown. Both girls curtsied. "They're going to assist me today -- if it's all right with you, my lady."

"I -- sure, it's fine with me, if you think you need them." I said, slightly confused.

"Oh, yes. They're going to work on your hands and your feet."

"My hands and feet?" I asked, looking at my short, neatly kept nails. "Do I need that?"

"Definitely. Your cuticles are a mess, and your feet are so calloused they're yellow -- and so rough they rip your nylons to shreds. You need a manicure and a pedicure." Ulrike said, in a voice almost as authoritative as Victor's.

I wondered when I had become high maintenance. Probably at the moment I went from accepting Ulrike's help to employing her. "Well – Okay. I guess." I never knew when I was going to have to walk or run for some distance, so I kept in training, and as a consequence there was some truth about my feet being rough. Still… My reluctance must have showed.

"My lady -- it is your wedding day. Surely you want to look your best." She went from commanding to pleading. Well, she was a mother.

The Bride Machine had got hold of me, and the gears were in motion.

My mother arrived around the time of my fingernails were getting a coat of one-coat quick-dry polish in a shade called Cameo Pearl, my feet were being energetically pumiced, and my head was bent over almost between my knees, so Ulrike could brush out my hair. I was very uncomfortable. If this was pampering, I preferred neglect.

"Good morning, my darling!" she sang out as she came in.

"I'm sorry, I can't hug you right now. I'm kind of pinned down. Good morning all the same, Mother." I replied.

"The best morning!", she said. "That can't be comfortable, dear."

"It isn't, but I hope it won't last much longer."

"Not too much longer, my lady." Ulrike soothed me. "After all, once we're done with you, your mother's next."

"Well, I'll just have to snatch a hug then." my mother said.

My rooms began to fill up with people as the morning progressed. The head housekeeper came in to supervise the maids as they stripped the bed and changed the linens, while another team tackled the bathroom. Somehow, none of them left after they were done. I didn't say anything about it -- there was an air of happy excitement in the room, and it was contagious. Besides, they weren't doing any harm, and they weren't bothering me.

We were down to one hour and counting, and Ulrike had started in on my makeup, when I got a call from Sue, who said that she, Jen, and Janet were downstairs, and could they come up and join the fun?

Of course, I said yes, and soon they were looking around my suite. "Make yourselves at home.", I said.

"So this is where you live," said Sue. "Hello, Mrs. Florescu. This is Jennifer Walters, and this is Janet Van Dyne."

"Hello," said Jen.

"I'm very pleased to meet you both." my mother replied.

"Likewise.", said Janet. "I'd know you anywhere. You look just like Joviana."

That helped me to relax. If there was anyone who could -- or would -- make the connection between me and Rhonda McKenna, it would be Janet. And she hadn't.

Besides, it was true. Part of it must have been our genetic connection -- Galina Florescu was my great-aunt, after all -- but some of it was just that she and I both stood up straight, with good posture and dignity.

"Are you the same Janet Van Dyne who's the clothing designer?", my mother asked.

"Guilty as charged.", Janet said, a smile in her voice.

"Oh, then come with me. You've got to see the dresses." Galina told her.

"I'm dying to see how they turned out." added Sue.

"Don't leave me behind!" the She-Hulk put in, and I heard them go to the end of the room, where the dresses hung, waiting. I heard noises of appreciation -- as Ulrike was working on my eyes, I couldn't turn my head.

" I'm a little surprised at how modest the ceremony gown is -- considering your taste in lingerie." teased Jen when they returned.

"Well, this is my wedding day -- not my wedding night." I returned, humorously.

"It's lovely." said Sue. "I'm almost jealous."

"Very Camelot meets Camelot -- King Arthur and Jackie Kennedy, that is. I mean, the whole wedding." Janet said. "Mrs. Florescu, wherever did you find that piece of lace?"

"About seventeen years ago, in this little hole-the-wall shop in Bucharest. I got it for almost nothing -- it was black with dirt, and torn in a couple of places. I brought it home and washed it in rainwater, and then I mended it. You can tell where I had to take needle and thread to it, if you look closely." my mother replied, modestly.

"Maybe if I had a magnifying glass, I could." Janet commented. "I love how your dressmaker used it."

Bisitra had taken several meters of cream-white silk crêpe, overnighted from a mill in France, and turned it into the simplest possible sleeveless dress. It had subtle princess seams, and a neckline that was high and round, almost like a T-shirt's. Below the waist, the dress widened, so it fell in soft folds around my feet. It was cut in the bias, to get the most beautiful drape from the material, and although it was slim fitting, it was neither tight nor clingy.

Although it was utterly plain in front -- no ruffles, no corsetry, no beads, or embroidery, it was the back that changed this dress, simple out of necessity, into a sophisticated creation.

Galina Florescu had bought seventeen years ago, and kept, a panel of exquisite handmade Belgian lace that was over a century old. It was about forty five centimeters wide and a little more than two meters long. It would have been criminal to cut it, but it was a little too solid to wear as a veil -- so Bisitra had come up with the idea of attaching it to the dress at my shoulders and letting it flow loose in a Watteau train down my back, to trail on the ground behind me. The train was only a couple of feet long -- unlikely to get tangled. The crêpe had been chosen to match the lace, so it was all the same cream-white. The result was stunning.

The nicest thing about it was that it was a style I might have worn on any day, if it were shorter, perhaps with a jacket or cardigan. I didn't feel or look like I was wearing a costume. I just looked like a more elegant version of myself, and as a consequence I felt very comfortable in it.

There came a scratching at the door -- one of the castle staff wanting a word. Knocking was for equals -- servants scratched. One of Ulrike's daughters went to answer it, and a male voice said something so discreetly I couldn't make it out. The girl replied. "I don't think her ladyship can see you at this moment --. I'll get her mother."

This was true. I was still in my dressing gown, over my slip. My mother went to the door and a moment later I heard her voice say, in a despairing cry, "Both of them? The back-up, too?"

"What's wrong?" I called.

"This man -- this man says both the wedding cake and the back-up have been completely destroyed." she said, sounding dejected.

Curiously enough, I felt relaxed, rather than panicked. The Laws of Heroics state there must be at least one disaster at any wedding. It can be serious -- an ex-husband or ex- lover showing up with murderous intent, or humorous, such as all the live lobsters getting loose in the house -- but there has to be one.

"What happened?" I asked.

The man -- I recognized his voice as one of the stewards -- said, more loudly, "Sonia -- the assistant pastry chef -- is a rather attractive young woman --."

"Yes?" I prompted him, when he paused.

"She attracted the attention of the Human Torch, who followed her back to the kitchen --." He went on.

"Oh, no." said Sue, trying to sound horrified.

"I'm afraid so. The Thing followed him for some reason. The Torch told him to go away, as he was butting in." continued the steward. "The Thing refused. It was then that the Torch threw the first pie. "

"Pie?" I asked. "Oh, of course. The desserts for the ox-roast tonight. Don't tell me -- there was a pie fight, wasn't there?"

"Yes, my Lady. More pies soon followed. Several of the other guests became involved somehow -- including at least two of the young ladies who are part of the X-Men's party. In the fracas, both cakes were knocked over and trampled underfoot."

"I am revenged." giggled Sue. "I am revenged for my wedding! Oh, I didn't plan it or anything like that. I wish I had!"

"What's going on now?" I asked. "What can be done?"

"I'm afraid that Fritz, the head pastry chef, quit on the spot. Sonia was fired by Mr. Schuller," -- he was the Castle's majordomo -- "for encouraging the Human Torch's attentions. Then Mr. Schuller had to be given a sedative and taken to his quarters to lie down." the steward reported.

"You're his chief assistant, Egon, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yes, my Lady. Something is being done, however. The chef from our New York embassy, Gustav, who flew back home after your ladyship commended him so highly during your visit there, has stepped in. He's directing half the staff in cleaning the kitchen, while the other half has gone down to Doomstadt to buy every available strawberry and every drop of cream. I believe he has started making sponge cakes."

"Then he has a plan." I said. "Well, as long as there's something like a wedding cake to serve guests, it will be all right. This was always going to be a dancing-bear kind of wedding. Thank you, Egon. Please send Gustav my thanks for his handling of the situation."

"Very good, my Lady." He left.

"Dancing-bear?" asked Jen.

"I believe it was Dr. Samuel Johnson, who said, 'The amazing thing was not how well the bear danced, but that the bear danced at all.' It is amazing that this wedding is coming off at all, let alone well."

"Now that, I agree with." stated Janet. "Sue -- Jen -- we have to be going downstairs to take our places."

"She's right." said Sue. "Joviana --" she leaned over to hug me -- "still want to go through with it?" she whispered.

"Oh, yes." I said.

"Then I wish you all the best." she said.

I stood up, and Ulrike and her daughters brought over The Dress, and lowered it over my head, being careful not touch my hair or face. My stylist zipped it up, and hooked the lace train into place. I stepped carefully into my shoes.

"Now for her jewelry." said my mother. She was already dressed and ready. Her dress was in a style similar to mine, but with short sleeves, and without a lace train, in a soft old-rose shade that was very flattering to her. She wore a big, wide-brimmed hat with a whole garden of roses on it, and a little corsage of white rosebuds with jasmine.

"Speaking of jewelry, I don't seem to remember that necklace." I commented. It was a long rope of pearls -- real pearls, long enough to knot in the front.

"It was a gift from my about-to-be son-in-law. I'm still trying to get used to thinking of him as that --!" she replied.

That was nice of him, to think of her. "I've only gotten used to thinking of him as my husband, myself." I confided.

"I can imagine." She smiled. "Here, my darling." She fastened the Art Deco emerald drop around my neck, while I slipped the earrings into my ears. The smooth green drop rested on the silk over my breastbone, looking like the essence of summer.

"It's time. Where are the flowers?" Ulrike handed me the compact bouquet of jasmine. Stars of fragrant yellow and white stood out against the deep green leaves, and three long vines trailed down from it.

"But you should look at yourself first!" my mother exclaimed.

"Nope!" I refused, "I'll look at the pictures afterward." It was showtime.


	81. Chapter 81

A/N: All my readers should head on over to the X-Men: Comics division and read Rosy-the-Cat's Don't Kid A Kidder, because there is a hysterical account of the destruction of the wedding cakes there...Virtual Toll-House cookies to Rosy!

* * *

My mother and I rode down on the elevator, me with my train caught up over my arm -- there was no sense in inviting trouble -- and holding my bouquet, she with my veil and the diamond wheat-ear circlet for my hair. It was the tradition for a bride's mother to put her daughter's veil on her head just before the groom leads her into the church, the last thing she will do for her as her child, before her daughter becomes a married woman. 

We chatted a little, made nervous with excitement, about things like how people around her were adjusting to the fact that The Master was going to be her son-in-law. I was nearly trembling, thrilled with anticipation as I was.

We were supposed to rendezvous with Victor, the other members of the wedding party -- namely Boris and the bishop -- in the Great Hall, and as we entered, I dropped my train and gasped, "Oh," in purest awe. "Oh, how magnificent!"

Because Victor was magnificent. No, he was majestic. Clearly, he had taken at least as much trouble over his appearance as my bridal committee and I had taken over mine --. I had to stop in my tracks take a moment to drink in the sight of him.

Instead of his everyday, steel-grey armor, worn with a tunic and a cloak in utilitarian shades of olive green, his armor was matte black with engraving picked out in gold and silver, ornamental scrollwork and flourishes. The mask was not molded any differently than his usual mask, but it, too, was matte black. There the engraver, whoever he was, had confined himself to simply enhancing the angles and planes with a few delicate lines, turning what was normally rather harsh into something with grace, and yes, with beauty. No grillwork, I noted. Of course not -- not only was he going to eat lunch, but he would be called upon to kiss me. (Lucky me!)

His tunic was heavy white silk damask, embroidered in gold around the edges, and on the chest of it was the Von Doom crest -- a dragon and a griffin, back to back, reared up and ready for battle. The Order of the Knighthood of the Dragon hung from the massive gold chain around his neck.

His cloak had no hood, and while it was green, this green was so dark it was nearly black, and it had the shimmer only real silk velvet has. It had a six-inch border of ermine fur, white with touches of black, all around the edge, and a ermine shoulder capelet over it, nearly elbow length, completed the ensemble. (This was not the time to express my anti-fur opinions.)

He looked like the king he was.

"Thank you, my dear --." He had been talking to Stephen Strange and Robert Angevin, and now he turned and looked at me.

The rest the world did not actually melt away and leave the two of us together alone in space. It just seemed that way, at least to me. I was smiling so wide my face hurt. It was completely involuntary. I was so happy I couldn't help it.

He was staring at me just as hard as I was staring at him, and into our rapt silence, he murmured, for my ears alone, "My summer…" Then, for everyone's benefit, he said, "Magnificent? No more so than you, my dear. You look every inch a queen -- does she not?"

"Indeed," commented Doctor Strange politely.

"You make a lovely bride." said Robert Angevin. "Joviana, may I introduce you to my wife, Rafaella -- Ella, for short?"

"My pleasure," I said, looking at Robert's wife/niece. "I was hoping I would get a chance to meet Hugo's mother. I have tell you that I'm completely in love with your son." I saw immediately where Hugo Angevin's red hair and brown eyes came from -- she had given them to him. She was about my height, and she wore a sunny yellow dress. But she was horse-faced -- she had a long face, a long nose, and a long, squarish chin. It was kind of a shock.

"He has that effect on people. If he has this much charm at less than one year of age, who knows what he's going to be like when he hits twenty-one? I'm almost afraid to find out!" She smiled, and the warmth of that smile, the way it touched her eyes, made her very attractive indeed.

"Now, if you would be so kind as to step over to this table here, and if Mrs. Florescu, and Doctor Strange will act as witnesses, this will only take a moment." said my attorney.

He had several copies of the pre-nups, and Victor and I signed and sealed three of them, after which my mother and Doctor Strange signed, too. Victor and I each got a plain copy, unsigned, for our personal records, Victor got one of the witnessed copies, and as my attorney, Robert took the two others, one for his files, and one to go on record in a neutral place.

Boris broke in, saying, "Aren't you ready? It's time! Oh, what a lovely girl!" He kissed my cheek. "No time to waste!" He was all energy and enthusiasm. No cane today -- he was feeling his best.

"Good morning, Boris," I greeted him. Boris was wearing his nice new black suit, with a fresh white shirt, and what was unquestionably the gaudiest waistcoat I had ever seen. It was cerise, and it had peacocks embroidered on it, in gold and iridescent blues and greens. I blinked, slightly dazzled. The bishop was standing behind him, in full ceremonial robes. We were going to be quite the wedding party!

We got ourselves organized, and split up into groups -- not counting Robert and his wife, or Doctor Strange, who went out to take their seats. My mother and I went off to the right gate tower, while Victor and Boris went to the left tower, and the bishop went down to meet us in the middle.

I had not yet gotten a look at the assemblage of guests -- I didn't want to get stage fright. My mother and I paused before we opened the door to step outside, and I asked, nervously, "How do I look?"

"Oh, my darling! Like a white rose." She took my face in her hands, very delicately. "This is a day a woman starts thinking about from the moment the doctor says 'It's a girl!' And now it's here... How I love you!"

"Is it any use to tell you not to cry?" I said.

The big clock on the Doomstadt Town Hall began to strike the hour of ten. I nodded to the footman, who opened the door to the castle yard. Sunlight and a cacophony of voices poured in -- but when they saw the door opening, the crowd outside fell suddenly silent.

I had to blink as I stepped outside. Three girls, ranging in age from about four to about twelve, sprang into action, and started scattering rose petals in front of me. I recognized the little girl who had been all sticky from candy when she gave me her little nosegay of flowers, on our return from America. Rather than scatter her rose petals, she seized them by the handfuls and threw them into the air as if she was trying to throw a softball. I liked her spirit.

The crowd, Latverian citizens all, filled the back part of the castle yard and reached halfway back down to Doomstadt -- all except for the carpeted pathway ahead of me. I could see Victor standing at the other end of it, and there, in the center, stood the bishop, at the juncture of the T-shaped carpet, which would then lead us up the center aisle, through the invited guests, and into Castle Doom. At the sight of Victor and myself, they let out a collective gasp.

I began walking, keeping my head up, my back straight, and kicking the hem of the dress as Bisitra had instructed, I went forward to meet Victor.

We reached the bishop simultaneously, and the ceremony began.

"Why have you come here to me today, my son?" asked the bishop, not of Victor, but of Boris. This was part of the best man's role.

"I come on behalf of -- my friend's son, that he might be betrothed to this maiden, with the blessing of the Church." replied Boris, his chest nearly bursting with pride.

"Is this so, my son?" The bishop asked Victor.

"Yes." Victor answered him.

The bishop then turned my mother, "You, who are kin to this maiden, what say you of this match?"

"It has my blessing." replied Galina Florescu, who truly was my family, all the family I had. I turned and stooped a little, so she could slide the wreath into place and arrange the veil around my shoulders -- not over my face. I was going into this marriage without even the slightest obstruction to my vision -- symbolic or literal.

When I straightened up, the bishop asked me, "Daughter, do you come here to be betrothed to this man?"

"Yes." I said, loud and clear and definite.

If this were taking place in a church or a cathedral, this part of the ceremony -- the betrothal-- would take place in the vestibule. The invited wedding guests, all of whom were turned around on their benches, were watching and listening with the greatest interest, and those who could not speak Latverian had been provided with ear buds that supplied simultaneous translation.

"Have you the rings with which they shall pledge to one another?" the bishop asked Boris and my mother.

"Yes." "Yes, I have." They replied, and produced them.

He took both, and blessed them three times, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Then he and Boris placed the rings on our right hands, and exchanged them back and forth three times, which had been explained to me symbolized how in marriage husband and wife complement one another, each supplying what the other lacked in helping where the other needed it.

"By this exchange of rings," the bishop concluded, "you pledge to share and exchange all that you have, heart and mind, body and soul, with one another in love and devotion, beginning now in this imperfect world, and continuing in the next, which is in the perfection of God. Let me now lead you in the path of virtue into the light of the Christ." He placed my right hand in Victor's right hand.

With that, he turned, we turned, the flower girls sprang into action -- since Victor had also had three, there were now six -- and we began down the aisle. I heard a piano, and then someone started to sing, "Gladly, gladly, We, rejoicing." -- Beethoven's Ode to Joy, arranged for piano and solo vocalist --.

The singer was extremely familiar. In fact, it was the voice of the woman who provided the soundtrack of my life.

It was Tori Amos.

I glanced ahead, to where the musicians were situated under the balcony. It really was Tori Amos. There was her red hair. She was not writhing, as she did it during concerts, but sitting as decorously as her minister father could have wished, wearing something pale blue -- not a leotard, playing and singing.

I glanced up at Victor. He said nothing -- except with his eyes.

How had he known?

Well, I only had a complete collection of her work on CD and DVD, and every book published about her or by her. And I had spent far too much money for a copy of her first, unsuccessful album, Y Kant Tori Read?. It couldn't have been too hard to figure out I was a fan of hers.

How much could have cost?

I didn't know. I didn't care. Tori Amos was singing at my wedding! My face was going to cramp with all the smiling.

Little did I know this was only my first big surprise, courtesy of Victor, today…


	82. Chapter 82

In many ways, the Eastern Orthodox wedding ceremony was turned around backward to the more familiar form. We began with the exchange of rings, which in every wedding I had ever heard of, happened at the very end, just before the presiding minister said, 'You may now kiss the bride.' So from exchanging rings, we proceeded halfway down the aisle, where we paused.

The bishop raised his hand, and the music stopped, so that he could say, "Marriage is a holy union, and must be entered into freely and honestly, without constraint or reservation. I asked now that you each declare before God, and these assembled here, that you enter into this marriage freely and of your own accord, by the laws of man and God, bound by no promise made to any other -- not even in the secrecy of your own hearts. My daughter?"

This, in its way, was the equivalent of asking "If there is any here present who knows of any reason why these two should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace." It would be a grand moment for Valeria to turn up and say something.

"I am marrying this man of my own accord and choice, and I am bound to no other by any tie." I said, clearly, pitching my voice to carry over the crowd.

"My son?"

Victor said firmly, "I have come to be married to this woman of my own accord, and I am free to do so by law. I am promised to no other."

"Liar!" The voice was female, and, unfortunately, a bit familiar. Everyone turned to see a woman standing on the white carpet behind us. Sometimes I just call it entirely too well: it was Valeria.

"Madam?" Said the bishop, somewhat weakly. I suppose an entire lifetime in the service of God must go by without a single instance of someone getting up during a wedding and objecting.

" From earliest childhood, we were intended for each other." Valeria said, walking up the aisle toward us. She thumped her fist against her breast bone, in emphasis. "You promised yourself to me."

"Granddaughter!" Boris said, "This isn't right! Thirty years ago and more that was, and you told me yourself you wouldn't have him."

"Can you defend him, Grandfather? When it is your honor as well as mine?" She flung at him.

"Honor?" Boris said, startled.

"She does not mean what you think she does. Had I ever gone further than honor could reconcile itself, I would have mended it, and married her." Victor said. "I did not injure her innocence."

Valeria ignored him, drawing nearer. Seeing her at close range was as much of a shock of seeing the un-glamoured face of the Valeria from the altered reality, which Wanda had created.

She was dressed as traditionally and conservatively as a Rom woman could -- a full-length black skirt, for women are unclean below the waist, and an enveloping shawl. She had chosen to lead a traditional life.

The problem was that the traditional life for a Rom woman was extremely limited. While I had learned to see beyond the stereotypic Gypsy image, and while I knew firsthand that the reality was quite different -- those who assimilated did well—not as well as Victor, perhaps, but well-- many Rom still lived in abject ignorance and poverty, much like Native Americans who chose to stay on the reservations provided by the United States government and tried to cling to the traditional ways. The traditional ways did not outfit them for life in the 21st century.

.The illiteracy rate among traditional Rom was about 70, in part of the reason was because the parents of Rom children encouraged their own children's truancy. Rom girls were usually taken out of school to marry at about the age of fourteen, and not a grown man, but another teenager -- only, however, after her virginity had been proven intact -- not on her wedding night, but by the probing dirty fingers of an elderly woman.

Rom men had no corresponding moral probity expected of them. In fact, the code of Rom behavior was probably the worst double standard between the sexes of any community I knew of. A traditional Rom woman would not even leave the house without her husband's permission!

There were no opportunities for traditional Rom men, outside of music -- the metalwork for which they were once renowned was done better and more cheaply in factories, and few people required their services with horses anymore. That left very little for them but crime and alcoholism.

That was the life Valeria had wanted. That was the life Victor did not want.

The real shock however, was her face. This Valeria was gaunt and haunted but still beautiful. It was her bones, which stood out starkly in her face. Her face was weatherbeaten, her skin sun-damaged, her expression bitter – yet she had a perfection of feature I did not.

"Perhaps this should be discussed indoors, in private." suggested the bishop.

"This challenge was made in public, so I shall answer it in public." Victor bit out. "The promise she speaks of was made in earliest childhood, as she says. When we were in our teens, it was already evident that we would not suit one another -- what she wanted of life and what I wanted of it were far too disparate for us to marry. It was more than twenty years ago when that became apparent -- and I have not seen her, spoken to her, or had any contact with her for more than 16 years. When last we spoke, she made it clear that she would not marry me."

"Is this true?" asked the bishop of Valeria.

"I would have," said Valeria. "I never married—I thought for certain, if I did—you would come after me, and kill him. I hid, I ran…"

"I never indicated in word or deed that I would pursue you. You made your feelings known. You were free. I was free, as well—free to choose another, one who cares neither whether I am handsome or hideous, but only that I am myself." Victor was working himself up into a fury.

"You think I cared about that?" She was equally mad. "I wanted you for yourself—can this Americanized slut truly say the same? Or did you buy her?"

"Such tawdry accusations you have brought to my wedding day." Victor said. "Have done, Valeria."

"No! I will not have done."

I cut across her fury, my insight spurring me to say what I would not have said, had I room to think. "You never married—not because you were afraid of him, but because you loved him—you love him still. You were waiting for him to come to his senses and go back to the old ways."

The truth must have hurt. She looked at me, and spat right in my face. Her spittle landed on my left cheek.

Victor slapped her. Not hard—he could have taken her head off, being in armor as he was. It was more an insult. She crumpled to the carpet and began sobbing hysterically.

The guests gasped. This was better theater than Shakespeare.

"Guards," Victor said, quietly. "Please escort this woman off the castle grounds. She is barred from them. Treat her with respect, but see to it she does not return." He raised his voice, "Bishop—honored guests—please forgive the interruption." He asked me, in an undertone, "And I must ask your forgiveness most of all. Would you like a moment to compose yourself?"

"What I want most is a handkerchief." I said. "I—oh, thank you, Boris." He had pressed his into my hand. I wiped my face. "I'm not the one crying her heart out. Let's continue."


	83. Chapter 83

The guards came forward and took Valeria up by the arms, as if she would break. As they began to lead her off, she cried piteously "Grandfather! Don't do this! You have always taken his side, always! Grandfather!"

I looked at Boris. He had his head averted, so he could not see her as she was removed from the castle yard. I put a hand on his arm, and whispered, "I'm sorry."

I saw tears on his face. "There's nothing to be done," he said. "I made my choice a long time ago and when I did it, I knew it would hurt her. There's nothing to be done." He repeated.

Once Valeria was out of sight and earshot, Victor turned back to the Bishop, and nodded.

He recovered himself, and began to chant Psalm 128, "Blessed is everyone who fears the Lord and walks in his ways. "

I should have been contemplating the marriage ceremony, but instead I was thinking about Valeria. Why would she have wanted such a constricted life? With all the opportunities available to her, why had she deliberately chosen to shut and lock the doors to so many of them?

Perhaps because she was afraid. Leading a life where one must ask one' s husband's permission to leave the house means that one never has to deal with such things as résumés and job interviews. Life was difficult, sometimes terrifying, no matter who you were. I realized that I felt quite sorry for her.

The Bishop concluded the Psalm and turned to Boris. "The candles," he commanded.

Boris produced two long white beeswax tapers. The Bishop than blessed the candles three times, before lighting them. He first handed one to Victor, and then handed one to me, saying, "Let this light be unto you the light of truth. Although the time these tapers can burn is but brief, even as our time in this world is but brief, let the light they shed be immortal in your lives, even as your souls are immortal.

"Remember the example of the virgins who waited for the bridegroom with their lamps, the seven foolish virgins, who brought no more oil than their lamps would hold, and the seven wise virgins, who came provided with enough oil that they could welcome the bridegroom and join the feast. Keep in your hearts, such store as will last, through this life and into the next."

We continued down the aisle -- I had given Galina my bouquet to carry for me, since I was still holding Victor's hand and was now managing a lighted candle -- as Tori continued her song, and we managed to get inside, up the stairs and out onto the balcony without any further incident. That was a minor miracle, since we were holding right hands and holding our candles with our left ones -- I was afraid I was going to set fire to Victor's cape, or at the very least, drip wax on his armor.

The moment we stepped out onto the balcony, I suffered something like a brain hiccup. It was the altar table -- or more specifically, what was on it. It had an ornate cloth, naturally and various pieces of ecclesiastical silver, such as candlesticks, the large and elaborate wedding chalice from the Doomstadt Cathedral, the flagons of wine to fill it, a cross in the center, and in front of it, on two red velvet pillows -- the crowns.

They were not the ceremonial crowns from the Doomstadt Cathedral -- not that I was that familiar with those crowns, because I wasn't, but because I was very familiar with these two crowns. They were the Latverian royal crowns -- the king.' s and the queen' s. That was what brought on the brain hiccup.

He never said --.

I never asked --.

I assumed I wasn't -- that he didn't --.

Surely this isn't --.

I didn't think he was going to make me queen!

Many people assumed that a king's wife is automatically Queen, but I knew enough history to know better. It depended on a lot of things -- how wellborn she was, whether they were already married when he became king, whether she had produced an heir to the throne -- but most of all, it depended upon whether or not he wanted to.

Maybe I was reading too much into this.

The Bishop cleared his throat and began, "Oh, Lord, God the Father, since You have ordained that this Your son, Victor Von Doom should have the governance not only of a household, but of a nation, and that this Your daughter, Joviana Ilys Florescu, shall be unto him his wife, his helpmeet and his companion in this world and the next, we ask that You shall triply bless these crowns and bless those who shall wear them.

"Crown them with wisdom and benevolence." He made the sign of the Cross over them

He then requested the blessings of the Son and the Holy Spirit in turn, asking for the gifts of mercy and temperance, of love and steadfastness, and made the sign of the Cross over them each time. Then he picked up the King's Crown, and made as if to place it on Victor's head.

But Victor intercepted him, taking the crown from the Bishop's hands, and setting it on his own head. The symbolism was quite clear -- the hand of God might offer the crown to Victor, but it was Victor's own initiative that made him king. The Bishop wavered only a moment, and took up the queen's crown.

Again, Victor took it, and turned to me. I hesitated a moment. Ought I kneel? I was remembering the painting that showed Josephine being crowned by Napoleon. She knelt. I did not like the symbolism, however.

Victor set the crown on my head, just as I was, standing up, as he was. Equals.

My first thought was, 'Damn, this is heavy.' I was glad I hadn't knelt -- standing up again would have been a challenge. It'd been a long time since I'd practiced walking with a dictionary on my head, to improve my posture.

The Bishop then began: "The Epistle of St. Paul to the Ephesians. May his blessings be with us all, Amen.

"Ephesians 5:22-6:3. Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands, as to the Lord, for the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body.

"Therefore, as the church is subject to Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything.

"Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it.

"That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word.

"That he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish.

"So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loves his wife loves himself. For no man ever yet hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, even as the Lord the church: for we are members of his body, of his flesh, and of his bones.

"For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined to his wife, and they two shall be one flesh.

"This is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the church. Nevertheless, let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself: and the wife, see that she reverences her husband.

"The grace of God The Father be with us all. Amen."

The guests echoed him, "Amen."

Then the Bishop turned to us and began the Instructions on Marriage:

"My blessed son," he said to Victor, "May the grace of the Holy Spirit strengthen you to take unto yourself your wife, in purity of heart and in sincerity. Do all that is good for her. Have compassion on her and always hasten to do that which will gladden her heart.

"Take care of her as her parents did in love and in humility, remembering that you have been crowned with heavenly crowns and confirmed by the grace of God. If it must be that she shall need correction, do so gently and lovingly that she shall not fear you nor be afraid of you. Remember that if you fulfill the divine commandments which urge you to look after your wife, the Lord will bless you in all you do, because His blessing is enjoyed by those who live in harmony: He will grant you blessed children and a long peaceful life; He will bless You in this life and the hereafter."

Then it was my turn:

"Listen, O bride and lend your ear, forsake your people and your father's home, for your chastity has appealed in the bridegroom, and he is your husband and to him you will submit.

"You, blessed daughter, and happy bride, you have heard what was commanded of your husband. So you must honor and respect him, do not disagree with him but increase your

obedience to him over what was commanded many times. For you are now alone with him and he is responsible for you instead of your parents. So you must receive him with joy and cheer, do not frown in his face, observe all your obligations to him, and fear God in all you do. Because God the most high instructed you to submit to him and commanded you to obey him as you obey your parents. So if you observe what we instruct you to do, and followed all the commandments, the Lord will support you and provide for your livelihood, the blessings will descend upon your house, and He will grant you blessed children who will fill your heart with joy."

He turned to the altar table, and took up the two flagons of wine, intoning, "When a man and a woman are joined in holy matrimony, they become as one, even as these two vessels contain wine, separate from one another. When I pour from them into the chalice of marriage, the wine mingles in the cup and becomes as one. The wine cannot be separated out into the two vessels unmixed once more, and neither can this man and this woman be separated. Two wines are become one wine.

"The two vessels that held wine are become three vessels that hold wine -- yet the substance that all three contain is identical. Even so is the Holy Trinity, and even so is marriage, for you waited not only one another, but also God, who is with you and around you. When you shall offend against your spouse, you offend also God, and when you make your spouse glad, you also gladden the heart of God. Drink, and be filled with the love of God, and the love of one another."

Victor and I each sipped from the chalice three times, in turn. I took delicate sips, mindful of our embryo, not that this tiny little amount was going to hurt our baby any.

"As you share this cup, so from this day forth shall so you share all: Joy and sorrow, poverty and wealth, health and illness, hope and fear, success and failure."

He said the Lord's Prayer, and then led us around the altar table three times, in what was called the Dance of Isaiah. By that time, the crown had grown extremely uncomfortable, and I was feeling a bit faint from low blood sugar. (My breakfast had been a nice cup of cold water, as per the Bishop's instructions.) However, I made it without stumbling, losing the crown, or setting fire to anyone or anything.

The Bishop removed our crowns -- Victor permitted him to do that -- and raising them high in the air, each in turn, saying "We ask that You shall receive these crowns into Your Kingdom. The kingdom Your son and daughter have entered on this day is not complete and shall not be completed on this earth, but in Heaven, when You shall receive them there. Until that time, let them create Your Kingdom on this earth while they may live upon it."

He turned to us. "Exchange now the kiss of peace, for you are married. Husband receive your wife, and wife, your husband."

In other words, 'You may now kiss the bride.' I had tried to look solemn through the ceremony, but now a wide smile was back on my face. As we faced each other, I could see that Victor was smiling, too, with his eyes and with his mouth. He was beaming.

Before the eyes of half the costumed adventurers and the dignitaries of a hundred nations, Victor and I stepped to close the gap between us, and -- kissed. The bells rang out. Everyone cheered. Victor and I were well and truly married.

* * *

A/N: In case anyone was wondering, their wedding ceremony is a combination of several Eastern Orthodox ceremonies, together with some details of my own devising.

Okay, I have a question or two for you, my faithful readers.

Would you pay to read this? I am thinking of making some changes and seeing if I can sell it as a romance novel. Do you think a publisher would buy it?

What, other than names and certain details, should I change, in that case?


	84. Chapter 84

Ulrike was waiting for me right inside the balcony doors with a glass of juice and a piece of strudel, so the moment I got offstage -- so to speak -- I would have something to keep me going until lunch. The rigors of the receiving line still awaited us.

I drained theglass, brushed away a few crumbs of strudel, reappliedlip gloss -- and went downstairs with Victor, my mother and Boris. For the better part of the next hour, we shook hands, greeted each and every guest, and thanked them for coming to the wedding.

First all the invited guests went past -- Ben and Johnny were sheepish, no doubt because they had to know I knew about the cake, and were afraid I would 'Bridezilla' on their sorry behinds. Sue was warm, Reed formal but not chilly. Namor made a comment about how he was looking forward to his own wedding.

When the X-Men came by, I looked very carefully at two young women in the party -- Katherine Pryde, also known as Shadowcat, and another girl, a girl I did not know or recall from the comic books. She had dark red hair, which very rarely occurs in nature, (yet superheroines seem to have it all the time), and she was wearing a very unusual and lovely Bolero jacket. The two of them looked so superbly innocent, that I knew they had to be the ones who were in the kitchen when the cakes fell to their deaths.

So I smiled, and asked, "Of course I know Katherine Pryde, but who is this young lady?"

She turned bright red -- much like myself when I get embarrassed -- and stammered, "I -- I'm Meg. Margaret Kidder, that is."

"Are you in the X-Men?" I inquired, curious. Poor thing -- more grist for Xavier's mutant mill.

"No -- and I don't want to be! I really want to be a doctor." She blurted out. "I mean, the superhero thing -- it's like running in circles."

This was intriguing! I would've liked to talk longer to this girl, but there were still a lot of guests to go before lunch. But my sense of mischief prompted me to ask one last question. "How did you like your tour of the kitchen?"

Her eyes widened, and she turned an even brighter shade of red. "We didn't do it!"

"It's all right," I assured her. "Thank you so much for coming to our wedding."

"Uh-you're welcome." she said weakly, as the line carried her past me.

After the invited guests came the citizens of Latveria, and there were a lot of them. No less than eight infants were pressed into my arms as their mothers and grandmothers went past. I was informed that holding a baby as soon as possible after the ceremony infallibly ensured that a bride would have a baby within a year after the wedding. Well, in a couple months, once we were ready to go public with our news, all those women would be nodding their heads, saying, "You see? It works!" and claiming credit.

By the time every single person on the receiving line filed past, I was, although excited and elated, definitely ready to sit down for a good long time and have some lunch.

First, however, I dashed upstairs to change into the reception gown. After two hours, eight babies, and innumerable hugs, the ceremony gown was a little creased and crumpled -- nothing that a steamer couldn't fix, but no longer fresh.

The reception gown was less formal than the ceremony gown. It was more fun -- and perhaps even a bit sexy, as it showed off some skin, with its spaghetti straps and lower neck. Bisitra had found a source for white silk tulle with gold embroidery, a pattern of vines, flowers, and scallops. The dress looked almost as if she had wrapped it around me in bath-towel fashion, directly under my arms, sewn it together, attached straps, and tied a long gold ribbon under my breasts to give it an empire waist -- and it just happened to look spectacular.

It took only seconds to get out of the ceremony gown, and into that one. I switched the emerald pendant and earrings for the wild rose set, with the antique-cut diamonds and emeralds sprinkled on the leaves like dew drops, while Ulrike took the veil off the wheat ear circlet. She insisted on dusting my face with powder before she would let me back out the door.

Just as I was leaving, she stopped me and said, "My lady, you really ought to look in the mirror."

"Ought I?" I asked, and turned.

The most notable thing was how happy I looked. The tulle dress floated around me like a mist, the necklace sparkled, and I glowed. I looked as though I would be starring in A Midsummer Night's Dream, rather than watching it in about an hour.

It wasn't as if the 'Beauty' fairy had come along, bopped me with her wand, and maybe perfect -- I was still entirely me in every feature. But I had spent the last week finding out, to my surprise, that how I had always perceived myself had been colored by how I felt about myself. The external transformation was as nothing compared to the internal.

Happiness, self-confidence, and the knowledge that I was loved, were better cosmetics than anything from a tube or a jar. "Not bad." I said, happily, scandalizing Ulrike -- and went downstairs.

Lunch would be served in a huge white pavilion tent, which was set up on the terrace where Victor and I had such a romantic dinner last week. I met Victor just inside the door leading out to the terrace. We were going to make an Entrance.

He had not changed -- he was still majestic in his black armor, and his fur-trimmed green velvet cape. Would I always feel ridiculously happy at the sight of him? I hoped so.

"Joviana, my dear!" he said when I appeared. Taking my hands, he held me at arm's length, and said, "Let me take a look at you -- I seem to have a tolerably attractive wife." The humor and pride in his voice and eyes belied his words.

"Do you think anyone will still be wondering why you wanted to marry me?" I teased him in return.

"I think they are more like to shrivel with envy. No, I do not think they will wonder why. Shall we?" He held out one arm for me to take and gestured to the terrace with the other.

"Yes." I threaded my arm through his, and we stepped through the door. Together.

* * *

A/N: know it's been a long dry spell. Sorry--life has been stressful.

Okay--now brace yourselves.

I want all my readers to know that I am going to continue the story up through the wedding night--and then take a break to get it into shape for a publisher.

When I start sending it out--under the title Just Super, which I think expresses the spirit of the book--I am going tohave to take theversions here down. Just a warning...

Why?

Partly because of the whole copyright issue, and because of the difficulty of getting a publisher to pay for what people can read for free.


	85. Chapter 85

We paused at the entrance, while the steward of the dining room announced, "Their Majesties, King Victor and Joviana, Queen of Latveria." That was the correct way of announcing us -- Victor had 'King' in front of his name by right of birth and conquest, whereas I, who had married up, had the title after my name. The assembly applauded, and we swept in. As we made our way to the high table, I looked around at everyone and everything.

Some brides spent months deciding what their wedding colors would be. Some drove everyone around them to screaming frustration as they nit-picked every last little detail of their receptions.

I, on the other hand, just asked the castle staff, 'Well, what do we have on hand?' The result was a lot of white. White tablecloths, white napkins, white bunting, green and white tableware. The pavilion looked spectacular, as I knew it would. There were enormous urns of cymbidium orchids on each of the tables, their meter-long flower spikes curving gracefully under the weight of their flowers, dozens on each stalk. They were the colors of sherbet -- raspberry, orange, coconut, lemon, and lime.

At each place, there were the wedding favors -- one beautifully bound and illustrated copy of a Midsummer Night's Dream, and an Everyman Library collection of poems on the subject of marriage -- those were my idea. There was also an 18 karat gold -- not goldplated, but solid gold, commemorative medallion. The front of it showed Victor and me in profile, facing one another, with the date and the Latin phrase 'Quod Deus Iunxit' -- which translated as 'Whom God Has Joined.' The back simply had the Von Doom crest. That was Victor's idea, and it had come as a surprise to me. There were also sterling silver versions, one for each Latverian citizen. (The collectibles market was going to go wild over those.).

We sat down at our places at the high table, and on cue, the guests sat down too. Victor was seated on my right, and Boris on my left. My mother was on Victor's right. This was dining in state, in medieval fashion. I glanced at the menu card and read:

Cream of Carrot Soup with Lovage

Pheasant Consommé

(Etiquette dictated that one offer one's guests a choice between clear and thick soups.)

Green Apple Sorbet.

(It would just be a tablespoon or two, to cleanse the palate.)

Grilled Brook Trout on a Bed of Wilted Field Greens

Mamaglia With Herbs

(Mamaglia was cornmeal mush, also known as polenta, grits, or semolina.).

Lemon Sorbet.

(Again, just a thimbleful.).

Chicken Roulade with Apricots, Almonds, and Barley

Steamed Mélange of Fresh Vegetables

(It was a good thing the portions were small. This was quite a meal.).

Pear Sorbet.

Pork Loin with Lemon and Bay Leaves

Salad of Heirloom Beets with Walnuts in a Pomegranate-Citrus Vinaigrette 

(The menu had been put together with an eye to showcasing the best of local produce and local cuisine. As Latveria had such a cold climate, root vegetables were bound to come into it somewhere. These beets weren't only the red kind -- there were orange, yellow and pink ones also.).

Rose Petal and Champagne Sorbet

(I was really looking forward to trying that.).

Wedding Cake

(I could only wonder what it would be -- or if there was one!).

First, however, Boris made a speech. "I have few words -- I'm only an old man with little education. I was at the wedding of Werner and Cynthia. I was there with Werner the hour his son was born. And now, I'm at his wedding. I hope -- I'm there for another hour in nine months or a year or so. To Victor and the lovely Joviana!" There was some laughing and clapping at that.

Boris sat back down, but that was not the end of the speeches. Doctor Strange rose to speak. "I hope you don't mind if I say a few words. There is a reason why the spell which transforms base metal into gold is referred to as 'The Mystic Marriage.' It is an acknowledgment of love's transformative power. Here, -- there is true gold. To Victor and Joviana!" He was applauded.

He was not the only surprise speaker. Reed Richards --, yes, Reed Richards stood, raised his glass, and said, "If anyone had told me, two weeks ago, that I would be here, at the wedding of Victor Von Doom, today, voluntarily, and in such a spirit of amity, I, well, I would've had a hard time believing them. This has come as one of the most significant and welcome surprises of my life. To Victor and Joviana Von Doom -- may you always be as happy as you are this hour, if not more so, and may your family and ours enjoy such amity!" Reed nearly brought down the house, there was such enthusiastic support for his speech.

I was amazed. If ever a man had sounded sincere, it was Reed Richards at that moment. What was going on? I resolved to try and corner Reed during one of the intermissions of the play.

The meal was exquisite, of course, and the time flew by. Before I knew it, it was time for the cake. Four footmen brought it out with great delicacy and care. It was five layers high, and built like a Mayan pyramid, with steps. Each layer was edged with vertical lady-finger sponge cakes, like rounded pickets for a fence, and heaped with strawberries, lots of strawberries, glistening red strawberries. As a decorative touch, Gustav had strewn all of it with sugared flowers -- violets, Johnny-jump-ups, and rose petals. There was a tremendous round of applause -- evidently the story of what happened to the cake had gotten around. Victor and I got up, and ceremonially cut the cake. There was no vulgar smashing of pieces into each other's faces -- although I thought it would have been very funny if I did. I don't think I would've enjoyed it very long, however!

The cake tasted even better than it looked. The whipped cream, the strawberries, the freshly baked sponge cake -- it was a dream.

Come to think of it, the whole day was a dream…


	86. Chapter 86

Perhaps I was getting as paranoid as Victor, but everything was just too perfect -- Valeria's interruption notwithstanding. Something was going to happen. Narrative convention, as well as the Laws of Heroics, demanded it.

As we were polishing off the cake and beginning to think of going to the play, Victor rose. "Honored guests -- you may have wondered that I spoke no word, other than simple thanks, to these friends who were so kind as to drink to our health and happiness. I was remiss. I shall correct that now. Boris -- my father's oldest friend, and mine as well -- our gift to you shall have to wait until later -- later today. It is private. Doctor Strange", Victor gestured to two footman, who stepped forward. "To you, the mantle of the mage Prosper, that same sage after whom Shakespeare patterned the Prospero of his Tempest." The servants unrolled an ancient and somewhat shabby velvet robe.

"I thank you," Stephen replied. "It's priceless. I'm honored to be its guardian."

"You are welcome. Now." Victor gestured to a different footman. "A token of my esteem for you, Richards."

I tensed up. The footman handed Reed a portfolio, which he opened with great care. A shade of suspicion crossed his face as he surveyed the contents. "These are my patents.", he said, puzzled.

Oh, no. The thread holding up that sword of Damocles had just been cut, and I could only watch it fall, helpless to prevent it.

"I don't understand." Reed said. "Winfield-Merton owns these."

"No longer. I bought out that branch of Winfield-Merton. Three days ago." Victor informed him. "The drop in gasoline consumption in Europe of late." -- almost entirely due to Victor's developments -- "has driven the price of gas down to less than a dollar per gallon in America. This is causing Winfield-Merton to face certain financial distresses. They were very glad to have the money."

As large as the pavilion was, and despite all the people in it, it was dead silent. Everyone was listening to Reed and Victor.

"Not their entire research and development division -- and their whole production line?" Reed's eyes turned excruciatingly wary, and his brow creased into three vertical lines.

"No. I bought out their division dedicated to keeping those developments and inventions which they deemed too… disruptive to the status quo in a state of perpetual preproduction." Victor was going to drive this sword in to the hilt.

A hunted, haunted look came over Reed's face. He set the portfolio done on the table and began sorting through his patents rapidly. Victor continued, "It was done through three proxies, of course, and with the proviso that I would not put them into production, nor sell them to any company that would. They could not imagine that I would see fit to give them away. You are not the only one who will be receiving his patents back -- there were thousands of them. I shall return them to the inventors in due course. These are yours to do with as you see fit."

Having driven in the blade, Victor gave it a twist. There wasn't even a trace of gloating in his voice -- but he had just told Reed that Victor Von Doom could afford to buy everything Reed Richards owned, then turn around, give it back to him as a gift -- and never miss it.

"The antigravity -- my cold-fusion generator -- the superconductivity modules --. It can't be. None of these were in production?" Reed asked, incredulous. He was asking himself as much as he was asking Victor.

"I am not the person from whom you should demand an explanation." Victor said, utterly neutral.

Reed Richards' expression changed. He gave Victor an assessing, analyzing look. "Do you realize what you've done?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm spotting you a pawn." Victor was referring to a practice in chess. When two players of unequal ability sat down to play together, it was customary for the better player to remove one of his pawns from the board, thus giving the lesser player an advantage.

You could have heard a pin drop in the pavilion. No one made a sound. Sue was looking back and forth between the two of them -- so was I, actually. Intense concern was written all over her face. She could tell Reed had caught a serious blow, but she didn't know the full extent of it yet.

Read close the portfolio and fastened it very carefully. "Thank you, Victor," he said, as neutral as Victor was. "I can see I'll have to mind the store more carefully." He managed to smile, but it looked painful.

"And now," Victor said to all and sundry, "We have a play to attend."

What had Victor just done? Yes, he had injured Reed Richards, and through him, the Fantastic Four, but this was not the mortal wound it would have -- could have -- been. This was a cut that would heal -- eventually. After all, a large part of their funding was now cut off, and Reed would have to figure out what to do with his patents now. Would he try to put them into production on his own, or would he farm them out to someone else again -- but keep a closer eye on them this time?

I had no doubt that Richards, and the Four, would recover, but they would never be the same again. The battle lines were being redrawn, and where before Victor and Reed fought with bombs and powers, now they would fight with barbed words and cutting comments. On the surface it would probably look like a friendship, but underneath! Reed had a lot of catching up to do. It would be very interesting to see what came of this. My mind reeled at the thought of it.

Victor offered me his arm, and we led the way to the outdoor amphitheater. I had several dozen questions to ask him, but I contented myself with a single word, which encompassed them all. "Why?"

"Do you recall the other evening, when you asked me why I had surrendered the world to the Avengers without a fight?" he asked me.

"Yes. You said it was an empty victory." I replied.

"You compared the situation -- one where I faced no opposition -- to being like weightlessness. You said that without the force of gravity to struggle against, bones become brittle and weak -- meaning that without competition, my driving force would be diminished, depleted. I considered your words carefully, and imagined a world in which Reed Richards was too crushed by his struggle against Winfield-Merton to be any threat to me anymore. It struck me as being very dull. Loathsome and bothersome as he is, he is the only opposition even close to my intellectual weight.

"Moreover, given what I have learned over the past few days, he is no more responsible for his transgressions against me than I am for the defeats I have suffered. It is not that I forgive him -- but a chess piece is not responsible for where the player sets it down. Under the circumstances, I can afford to be generous."

I looked at him. "If I were not already signed on to have your babies, this would have me pleading for the chance."

That made him chuckle. "Somehow I knew you would like that."

I squeezed his arm gently, mindful of the armor. "So the world as we know it comes to an end, and now a new one -- with so much to discover -- begins." I mused.

"But first -- Shakespeare." Victor commented.

"Someone I'm glad to bring along from the old world into the new." I agreed, but I was still planning to corner Reed and ask him why he said I shouldn't marry Victor…

* * *

A/N:If you thought I was going to have this all be a dream...I would never do that to you.


	87. Chapter 87

Naturally, Victor and I got the best seats in the outdoor amphitheater -- upholstered armchairs brought down from the castle, set on level ground under a canopy. There was enough room for Boris and my mother there, too. The guests weren't too badly off. They had chairs and big sun umbrellas if there were no trees to sit under. A lot of Latverian citizens had brought blankets, seats and sunshades -- even picnic baskets, for this performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

It began, and I lost all sense of everything else other than the play. Theseus, the Duke of Athens was trying to woo his bride, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. He did not have to -- their marriage was a marriage of state -- but he was trying to make it a true marriage. She wasn't too sure about it. Then in came the young lovers Hermia and Lysander, along with her father Egeus, and Demetrius, the young man her father wanted her to marry...

I had to blink when intermission came. A footman brought lemonade, I took a glass, told Victor I wanted to stretch my legs, and went off to see if I could find Reed. However, Janet popped up in front of me.

"Hi", she chirped. "Joviana, can I steal you away for just a moment? I have just got to talk to you."

"Oh -- all right. Is it important?" I asked.

"Absolutely. How do you feel about silk jersey?" she asked.

She wanted to talk clothes, so I went along with her, waving a bee away from my lemonade as I went. "As long as it's a good quality silk. I can't stand that nasty odor that clings to cheap silk knits. It never goes away, and perfume does nothing to cover it." I told her.

She was steering me toward a little stand of trees, somewhat removed from the party. "It will be the best quality silk, I promise." She soothed me. By now, we were under the trees, and she glanced around. My paranoia raised its head.

"Good – we're alone. Remember the other day, when I said you reminded me of a girl I was friends with, years ago?" She asked.

Oh, no. The lemonade turned to bile in my mouth. "Yes -- didn't her mother murder her, or something?"

"I don't know what happened. I only know she disappeared. Well, her mother -- I really always did think she was psychotic -- went to the media claiming you were her missing daughter." Janet looked at me, her eyes frank and wide.

I was not going to give anything away. "The McKenna woman in Pennsylvania? You don't mean she's the same one?" I really should have been an actress.

"Yes." Janet replied, looking searchingly into my eyes. "When I heard that, the first thing I did was take out an old photo album, and I found a picture of us together was taken the summer when we were eleven. When I saw it, I realized that you do look just like Rhonette -- not like she was when she disappeared, overweight and unhappy in everything, but like she did way back when she was just a girl. You already reminded me of her, in terms of personality.

"I was furious. I was convinced you were her, for a while. I remember that story you told us about meeting Victor when you had leukemia, and how he saved her life -- that would've been a lie. I thought you had lied to Sue and Jen, and played me for a fool. I was ready to call up the media myself, and corroborate her story."

"Janet!" I said. "I'm not that girl -- and I have a mother of my own. How could you think --?"

"Oh, it's all right. That was then. The reason I didn't call up the media was that I remembered that she knew my secret identity -- and she didn't tell. I owed it to her -- if you were her -- not tell anyone until I gave you a chance to explain."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't!" I said. My heart was pounding. That had been a very narrow escape, and I didn't even know I had been in danger.

"So am I. Well, over the next few hours, the whole story unfolded. A spokesman for the family -- one of my friend's uncles, along with a lawyer, issued a statement that Ms. McKenna was mentally ill -- probably schizophrenic -- and had been for quite some time. They said she was in a mental hospital for evaluation. Then they issued an apology and a retraction.

"At that point," Janet continued, "I didn't know what to think. My first reaction was 'They were bought off or scared off.' I am sorry, Joviana, but that was what I thought. At that point, you could not have torn me away from that story. I couldn't get through to you. I was thinking all sorts of wild things -- that maybe you were Rhonette, but you believed you were Joviana, that you had been brainwashed and programmed to believe it. Then I remembered Sue had said you weren't, so that was out."

"Certainly not!" I interjected. "What made you change your mind?"

"The things that started coming out next." Janet looked at me meaningfully again. "About what her mother did to her -- the cellar, and the restraining order."

I should've said something, but I didn't know what.

"It got me thinking." Janet said. "Somebody who had that happen to her -- I imagine she would do almost anything to be somebody else, somebody who was loved and valued. And after all, when she went missing, I didn't even investigate -- because I was angry with her. Something she predicted turned out to be true."

She meant that her marriage to Hank turned out to be abusive, and their breakup ugly.

"That was small and mean of me, because she was a good friend, back when we were girls. If she had a chance to reinvent herself -- what I'm trying to say is, I know you're not Rhonette. You are exactly who you say you are -- but if you were Rhonette -- that would be all right with me. I miss her. I'd like to know that she really got the fairy tale -- a castle, and a kingdom, and a knight in shining armor -- even if he isn't anybody else's idea of Prince Charming. I'd want her to be happy, and I'd want her to know she could feel safe."

"If I were Rhonette," I said, carefully, "I would be touched very deeply by that. I think I am, anyway, just in sympathy." I was still holding my lemonade. I took a swallow. It was sweet and delicious. "I wonder what will happen to her mother."

"Oh, after last night, she's been committed." Janet replied.

"Why?" I asked. "What happened last night?"

"They let her leave the hospital for the night, because she was acting normal enough, and her mother -- my friend's grandmother -- didn't want to sign commitment papers. She went home, and burned her house down."

"She what?" It was a good thing I'd swallowed the lemonade, or I would've choked on it. I shoved my shock under and composed myself -- fast.

"She set fire to her house -- deliberately. She wasn't in it, and fortunately, nobody got hurt, but it's just a pile of ashes now." Janet informed me.

There went my proofs -- literally up in smoke. The comic books, the newspaper clippings, the photographs, and everything else. Gone. Ashes. All of it.

"Did any other houses in the area catch fire?" I said, sounding as normal and detached as anyone could.

"No. They couldn't do any thing to stop that house from being consumed, but they were able to confine it to just that house." was Janet's reply.

"I'm glad of that." I said.

A footman came up. "My lady -- they're waiting the next act for you."

"I'll be there directly." I promised him. Turning to Janet, I said, "On another topic -- although maybe I shouldn't jinx it -- have you ever designed any maternity wear?"

"Joviana! Are you telling me you're --?" Janet gasped.

"I only just got married three hours ago!" I protested.

"As if that meant anything." she scoffed. "Are you?"

"I had a period very recently, so I haven't missed any. It might not happen that easily, after all." Actually, it had happened just that easily.

"Well! You're sure giving me something to think about…" We chatted about inconsequential things until she went back to her seat, and I went back to mine, next to Victor.

My mother spotted my thoughtful look immediately. "Joviana? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all," I lied. "I just heard the strangest thing, though. Do you remember that odd woman, who was saying I had to be her missing daughter? I said, and it seems I was right, that she had to be mentally ill. She set fire to her house last night."

"Poor woman." Galina shook her head.

The next act began. It was much more difficult for me to lose myself in it this time. I was in a slight state of shock. The house was gone, and with it, more than just my proofs. The cellar was gone, where I had spent three days in my private hell, but so was the living room where my grandmother had put up the Christmas tree, the bed where I could lay at night and see the stars through the window, the kitchen table, where we had made cookies, and the backdoor, through which a little gray and white kitten had walked one day.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I did not let them fall. Galina must not know that anything was wrong. Perhaps Victor saw -- perhaps he did it to help me, or perhaps he simply felt like doing it at that moment -- why, I didn't know, but he slipped his hand out of the gauntlet and reached over to take mine, skin against skin. That simple human touch provided a world of comfort.


	88. Chapter 88

I would not be deterred.

During the second intermission, I drifted by Reed Richards, and asked "Would you care to walk with me for a few minutes?"

"Certainly," he replied. We headed up the hill.

We climbed in silence for a few minutes. I made sure we stayed in full view -- no need to incite any rumors -- but we were removed enough to speak privately when he said, wryly, "This has been a day full of surprises."

"You never said anything truer." I looked at him. He looked ten years older than he had we toasted as at lunch. "What will you do?" I asked. We both knew what I was referring to.

"Do?" He snorted. "I don't know. Cope." He added. "All that work -- all the good I told myself I was doing -- sitting in a filing cabinet."

I coughed. "Speaking of surprises," I used as a segue, which was none too subtle of me , but we didn't have long before the play would begin again," I was quite surprised by your toast. That was quite an about-face on your part."

"You want to know why I changed my mind."

"Yes -- but I'm more interested to learn why you said I shouldn't marry him in the first place." I looked at him.

He grimaced. "Fair enough." He raised his head, and looked at the horizon. "Back in college, Victor didn't date a whole lot -- he didn't socialize very much at all. I doubt that surprises you."

"It doesn't." I assured him.

"I didn't think so. He didn't chase girls; girls chased him. It wasn't that he basked in it, because he didn't. He tried to avoid them -- he made a lot of crushing putdowns, glared at them, and kept his nose in a book. I think he was put off by how forward they were, how free --."

I could imagine that. I had been anything but forward.

"Not until one night, when he got very drunk, did I see him any different." Richards continued.

Uh-oh, I thought. Here comes. Victor made a pass at him or something.

"This was at a homecoming party, outdoors, at night. One girl got him to take a walk with her, in the woods. Not long after, she came running back to the party, saying that he had tried to strangle her. They had been, well, been making out, and he put his hands to her neck and tightened them. She said that for a moment, she was sure he was going to kill her, but then his face changed. He had changed his mind. She showed us her throat. He had left marks on it. They weren't hickey marks -- they were finger marks. They weren't quite serious enough to be bruises, but they came close to it.

"She reported it to the campus police, to her student advisor, to the counselors -- anybody who would listen. He was never arrested. I don't think he was even disciplined for it. It was hushed up, because the program through which he and I were attending college was government-funded, and they knew he was valuable. Soon after, she left the school, and never came back." He fell silent.

When it became clear he wasn't going to say anything more, I asked. "That's it?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever go out with another girl, that you knew of?" I prodded.

"No."

"Were there any unsolved strangulation murders of young women in the area at the time?"

"No!" Richards at looked me as if he thought he smelled something bad.

"He didn't rape her, did he?" I had to ask -- I had to know.

"No. She said they weren't having sex -- just making out." He looked quite serious and humorless.

"Did she lose consciousness?"

"No."

I took a deep breath. "So. They were making out, and things got a little rough. He scared her, but she wasn't hurt badly or permanently. Nobody witnessed it, he was never arrested, let alone tried, so it's her word against his -- unless he confessed?"

"He never said a word about it." Richards replied.

"So what you're telling me is nothing but hearsay and circumstantial evidence left over from nearly twenty years ago. Forgive me, Dr. Richards, but that is not a strong case against marrying him."

"I know. That wasn't why I objected." A ghost of a smile hung around Richards' lips for a moment, and then vanished.

"No? Then -- why?"

"Sue told me she thinks this marriage is the best thing possible to have happen -- that it will change everything, because if Victor's life wasn't ruined, then he won't hate me as passionately anymore. She wants to know why I couldn't see that -- but of course you knew that already." That last piece of information hit me where I lived.

"Of course. You have cameras and microphones around the Baxter Building, don't you?" It was the only explanation.

"Yes. The truth is, I saw that at once -- but I also saw it all depended on what sort of person you were. I was pretty sure from the broadcast that you didn't drip venom from every talon, but you didn't look as if you were up to the life you were getting into by marrying him. I had to find out if you were sincere -- and if you would survive. First I tried to scare you off -- and then I got some inside information on you." He gave me a look that was really rather approving.

"Dr. Strange?" I guessed.

"Got it in one. He said he thought you were equal to anything. He also said that if any woman had ever looked at Victor in the way that you looked at him before he became what he is, it was certain that no other woman would ever look at him in that way again. He thinks that whether Victor knows it or not, he Is trying, and succeeding, to live up to your image of him."

"I'm not sure how to reply to that. I'm going to have to think it over." I frowned.

"That's all right. Anyway, what better way could I make sure Victor went through with it, than to be against the match?" He smiled when he said it.

I had to laugh. "Dr. Richards, thank you. I'm so glad that you told me. My imagination was running wild."

"How so?" He inquired.

"Because I was beginning to think Victor must have made a pass at you." I told him.

His jaw dropped -- I mean it really dropped. It hit the ground. He sputtered incoherently. For the first time, I could see the appeal he must have for Sue. Living with him must be like living with a living Tex Avery cartoon.

"Made a pass at me?" he asked, utterly dumbfounded and utterly convincing. "I hope you didn't share that with him!"

"Oh, no -- I know better than to do a thing like that! However, I was considering running the idea past Sue..."

That made him laugh. "You're quite a remarkable person, Lady Doom."

"Thank you. You're a good man, Dr. Richards, and I wish you all the best. But I don't like you. I can't like you." I said, doing my best to convey with tone and inflection what it was I truly meant -- which was that it was the circumstances alone that made me say such a thing. Mr. Fantastic and the wife of Doctor Doom could not be friends.

"I believe I catch your meaning, and I understand. In fact," he looked around, "What would you say to slapping me across the face, hard, before we go back? It won't hurt me, I'll stretch with it."

"For Victor's benefit?" I chortled. "What a lovely idea. Sure." I suddenly contorted my face with fury, drew back my arm, and let him have it. Then I turned on my heel, and stormed back down the hillside.


	89. Chapter 89

I did not go directly back to my seat beside Victor; I made my way though the guests first, smiling and asking them if they were enjoying the performance. Ben Grimm was fast asleep, his head thrown back and seismic snores emanating from the depths of his throat. I forebode to comment.

When I stopped by the X-men, and I asked them what they thought of it, the Beast smiled and replied, "A marvelous interpretation. I'm finding it quite inspiring. Xavier's has never had a tradition of putting on a play—perhaps I will institute one, while I'm there."

"You're taking up teaching there?" I inquired.

"For the time being. Professor Xavier's health was taxed during recent…events, and he'll be recuperating for a while, I believe."

Perhaps the Professor could be persuaded to retire. "I hope he recovers swiftly and completely. I think that Xavier's School will only benefit from your tenure there." The Beast--Dr. Hank McCoy—was a more practical person, as far as the X-men went. He had actually held down a real-world job for several years.

"Thank you." said the Beast. "I think that Latveria—and your new husband—can only benefit from your presence here."

"How charming of you! I hope your students are enjoying the play as well."

I looked at the rest of the group. Storm said that, yes, she was, and she appreciated that the Fairy Queen was being played by a woman of color, and Kitty added her appreciation, but Meg said, "It's enchanting and beautiful—but it's incredibly inaccurate, historically speaking."—and then looked horrified that she had said a word.

"Well, yes." I agreed. "If you think of the characters as having been named for the historic figures, maybe that will help."

"Um, yeah. Thank you." She was bright pink again—I felt for her, as I had the same propensity to blush at the least little thing.

Eventually I made my way back to the bridal canopy, where I smiled at Victor as I took my seat. My dear husband must have been dying to know what Richards had said that caused me to slap him, but he didn't ask, and in any case, the play was beginning again.

I watched, entranced, as the lovers lost in the wood and befuddled by love-spells fell asleep, only to wake, unsure of the events of the previous night, and certain only that they loved each other. Titania gave the Indian boy to Oberon, and Bottom woke from his dream. The Duke won not only the hand, but also the heart of his Amazon bride, and they all lived happily ever after…

Perhaps they, too, existed somewhere, in some other universe, where Shakespeare was to them what Stan Lee and Jack Kirby were to us.

For that matter, perhaps someone was writing my story, as I lived it. That was an odd thought…It would have to be fanfic, because I couldn't see the Marvel Comics Group permitting someone to marry off Doctor Doom, let alone all the other events of the last week. I wondered what she—and I was sure the postulated writer was a she—had in mind for us next. Maybe, if she did exist, there was someone else in another universe writing her. That was a very Alice-Through-The-Looking Glass thought, where the Red King slept and dreamt about Alice dreaming about him.

Victor's hand covered mine, and brought me out of my fancies. "I do not need to ask if you are enjoying the performance. The expression on your face speaks for you.," he murmured.

I wondered just what my expression was, but he sounded pleased. On stage, the actor playing Puck declaimed, "Give us your hands, if we be friends. And Robin shall restore amends!" The play was over.

I clapped, as did every one else, and rose. The roasted ox was nearly ready for eating, and the fireworks were set up and ready to go, but Victor and I were not staying for either of them. I had read that there was no surer sign the honeymoon was over, so to speak, than a pair of newlyweds who thought that partying and dancing with their friends all night was preferable to…anything they might do alone together. (Although the image of Victor doing the Electric Slide was enough to make me giggle to myself.)

It was all arranged: he and I would mingle with the guests for a while, and then separately slip off to the hangar, where his craft was waiting for us, complete with luggage. We were sneaking off, in other words. I saw Victor say something in Boris' ear, and I smiled to myself, guessing what Victor was telling him—not the full news, not yet, but where to meet us.

I made my rounds once more with impatience—all these people to speak to, and all I wanted was to be alone with Victor! But in ten minutes or so, I realized Victor had disappeared, and I slipped inside the castle and went up to change. White silk with gold embroidery was a poor choice for traveling.

Ulrike had linen pants and a knit top waiting for me, and I changed and was down to the hanger in less than fifteen minutes. Victor, back in his everyday armor, stood with Boris by the aircraft.

"I wonder if my heart will burst," I said when I reached them. "I don't ever remember being as happy as I have been in this past week, not in my entire life."

"Your heart will have to endure it." Victor told me. "You are not to die before I do. I will not stand for it."

"Where would that leave me, then?" I spluttered. "It will have to be simultaneous. However, Boris is here. We're ignoring him."

"That is wrong." Victor agreed. "Boris—Father, our gift to you is this: It has been foretold--." He looked at me, to fill in the rest.

"That we are to have a child, a daughter, within a year." There—I had left some wiggle room that didn't admit I was already pregnant.

Watching the smile that spread over Boris' face was like watching the sun come up. Victor certainly knew what gift to give him. It was like the look on the face of a saint or an angel in an Annunciation—which was quite appropriate, come to think of it.

"Bless you." Boris said, when he could speak again. "Bless you both…Now go on. That child won't make itself, you know." With that farewell, we went on board the aircraft.


End file.
